ALBERT 

PAYSON 

TERHUNE 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY    OF 
CALIFORNIA 


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"Get  into  the  hall  there  and  shut  the  dour  behind 


you. 


DAD 


BY 


ALBERT  PAYSON  TERHUNE 

Author  oj 

•The  Fighter,"  "Caleb  Conover,"  "The  Woman,"  etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

W.   D.   GOLDBECK 


a 


New  York 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1914  by 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.  Yt 


TO 

THIS   STORY   IS 
LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 


159 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Interruption i 

II.  Disgrace 1 1 

III.  Outcast 19 

IV.  Fourteen  Years  Later 30 

V.  Past- Worthy 40 

VI.  The  Chums 48 

VII.  Left  Behind 55 

VIII.  Council  of  War 63 

IX.  A  Lesson  in  Manners 75 

X.  Sergeant  Dadd 84 

XL  Devil  and  Deep  Sea 97 

XII.  The  Little  Lady 103 

XIII.  The  Alarm 112 

XIV.  Dad  the  Paladin 124 

XV.  Fighting  Joe 132 

XVI.  The  Chickahominy 139 

XVII.  "  Battle  Jimmie  '' 148 

V 


vi  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XVIII.  "  General  "  Dadd 155 

XIX.  The  Clash ! 165 

XX.  The  Prodigal  Father 174 

XXI.  The  Little  Lady  Again 181 

XXII.  The  Afterglow 189 

XXIII.  The  Attack 200 

XXIV.  A  Lost  Burden 209 

XXV.  The  Three  Comrades 218 

XXVI.  The  Iron  Chess-Game 226 

XXVII.  A  Stern  Chase 237 

XXVIII.  Check  and  Countercheck 248 

XXIX.  The  End  of  the  Fight 260 

XXX.  Battle  Jimmie,  Courier 266 

XXXI.  Jimmie  and  the  Generals 273 

XXXII.  Love 283 

XXXIIL  War! 290 

XXXIV.  The  Man  at  Washington 297 


DAD 


''DAD" 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    INTERRUPTION 

ACROSS  the  plaza,  under  the  white  sun-glare, 
marched  and  countermarched  the  crack  regiment's 
bronzed  men  in  their  heavy  high  caps  and  the  rest  of 
the  odd  regimentals  of  the  late  Forties. 

From  walls  and  roofs  hung  a  myriad  of  more  or  less 
soiled  American  flags.  On  the  plaza  band  stand  a 
group  of  Mexican  musicians  were  wrestling  with  "  Co- 
lumbia, the  Gem  of  the  Ocean." 

This  last  feature  of  the  celebration  was  a  bit  of  tragic 
irony  attributed  to  no  less  a  humorist  than  the  arch- 
victor,  the  hero  of  the  day  —  Ma j  or-General  Winfield 
Scott.  The  native  musicians  were  in  no  wise  loath,  on 
patriotic  grounds,  to  play  "  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the 
Ocean." 

They  were  professional  performers.  One  tune  meant 
as  much,  and  as  little,  to  them  as  another. 

They  had  not  the  faintest  notion  that  they  were 
playing  a  national  air  of  their  nation's  conquerors. 
The  pained  looks  on  their  simian  little  faces  and  the 

1 


2  "  DAD '' 

sad  havoc  they  wrought  upon  a  noble  melody  were  due 
solely  to  the  fact  that  the  tune  was  new  to  them,  unlike 
anything  they  had  ever  before  heard  ;^  and  that  they 
had  had  insufficient  time  to  rehearse  it. 

But  the  effect  was  there. 

At  the  first  halting  notes,  a  grin  of  wondering  de- 
light twisted  the  faces  of  the  marching  regiment.  The 
episode  appealed  to  their  Yankee  humor.  The  grin 
was  reflected  on  the  visages  of  the  crowd  of  officers  and 
civilians  who  filled  the  dais  at  the  plaza's  northern  end. 

The  onlooking  Mexicans  —  from  peon  to  hidalgo  — 
who  fringed  the  square's  edges,  listened  in  stark 
apathy.  Most  of  them  were  ignorant  of  the  air's  im- 
port. To  them  it  was  but  a  gringo  melody;  far  in- 
ferior to  "  La  Paloma." 

The  few  who  recognized  it  showed  no  resentment. 
To  their  Spanish-Indian  minds  it  was  but  natural  that 
the  victors  should  thus  crow. 

They  themselves  were  beaten;  hopelessly  beaten. 
They  and  their  country.  They  were  glad  enough  to 
get  off  as  easily  as  they  seemed  like  to. 

A  little  vaunting  —  the  playing  of  their  new  mas- 
ters' national  song  —  was  nothing  to  what  they  would 
have  done  had  the  conditions  been  reversed. 

General  Scott  sat  at  the  center  of  the  dais-front. 
Portly,  his  round,  red  face  framed  by  white  chin-whis- 
kers and  thin  white  hair,  he  was  decked  out  in  all  the 
blue-and-gold  glory  of  a  United  States  major-general's 
dress  uniform. 

This  was  perhaps  the  crowning  day  of  his  career. 


THE  INTERRUPTION  3 

At  all  events  he  was  celebrating  it  m  accord  with  that 
idea. 

Mexico  had  fallen.  The  hectic,  Iniquitous  war  was 
at  an  end.  Vera  Cruz  and  Popocatepetl  had  become 
names  of  new  meaning.  The  capital  city  itself  had 
surrendered. 

To-day,  the  United  States,  in  the  person  of  its  ar- 
mies' commander,  was  to  receive  formal  notification  of 
the  fall  of  the  last  native  stronghold. 

And  Scott  had  turned  the  war-drama's  last  scene  into 
a  pageant. 

To  the  strains  of  "  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean,*' 
the  local  army's  best  regiment  was  going  through  won- 
drous evolutions  before  coming  to  a  halt  opposite  the 
dais.  The  local  Mexican  authorities,  their  speeches 
ready,  stood  waiting  to  step  forward  to  the  dais  and 
deliver  them. 

Among  the  dais's  civilian  occupants,  a  Congressman 
and  a  foreign  charge  d'affaires  were  to  follow  with  suit- 
able addresses.  And  General  Scott  himself  was  to  re- 
ply with  a  few  well-chosen  remarks;  his  military  secre- 
tary having  done  the  choosing. 

Altogether,  it  was  an  affair  worthy  of  full-page  ac- 
counts In  all  the  administration  newspapers  throughout 
the  United  States,  and  for  a  paragraph  or  two  in  his- 
tory. 

(That  neither  the  newspapers  nor  history  made  much 
if  anything  of  It  was  wholly  due  to  a  dusty  man  in 
fatigue  uniform  who  was  just  then  riding  a  very  tired 
horse  toward  the  plaza.) 


4  " DAD  " 

Mexico  had  fallen. 

More  than  a  decade  earlier  the  gringo  pioneers  in 
Texas  had  clashed  with  the  Mexican  lords  of  the  soil. 
And,  after  many  a  bloody  conflict,  red  with  mediseval 
barbarity,  they  had  seized  Texas  from  Mexico  and  made 
a  republic  of  it. 

Later  the  Lone  Star  republic  had  been  annexed  to 
the  United  States.  Mexico  had  protested.  Then  our 
government  had  declared  that  Texas  not  only  belonged 
to  the  United  States,  but  that  its  southern  boundary 
was  the  Rio  Grande,  instead  of  the  Nueces  River. 

Again  Mexico  had  protested. 

Whereat,  President  Polk  had  sent  an  old  Indian 
fighter,  Zachary  Taylor,  to  the  Rio  Grande  with  four 
thousand  troops,  to  maintain  the  frontier.  Taylor, 
with  his  handful  of  men,  had  calmly  plowed  his  way 
southward,  thrashing  Mexican  armies  double  the  size 
of  his  own,  until  all  northern  Mexico  was  his. 

President  Polk,  "  viewing  with  alarm  ''  the  repute 
that  Taylor,  a  political  foe  of  his  own,  was  gleaning, 
hustled  the  army's  commander-in-chief.  General  Scott, 
south  to  snatch  any  remaining  laurels. 

Scott  stripped  Taylor's  little  band  of  its  best  officers 
and  men  and  continued  the  war  to  a  triumphant  end; 
Taylor,  meantime,  at  Buena  Vista,  opposing  his  own 
remnant  of  an  army  to  a  Mexican  force  five  times  its 
size  and  nearly  annihilating  the  enemy  in  the  most 
important  and  spectacular  battle  of  the  whole  war. 

But  now  that  the  conflict  was  over,  Scott  was  in  his 
element.     He  was  the  ideal  god  of  war;  a  far  more  im- 


THE  INTERRUPTION  5 

pressive  figure  on  this  climax  day  than  down-at-heel, 
tobacco-chewing  old  Zachary  Taylor  could  have  hoped 
to  be. 

The  regiment  came  to  a  halt.  At  a  barked  order, 
eight  hundred  cumbrous  muzzle-loading  muskets  clicked 
to  the  "  present,"  then,  with  a  double  click,  to  the 
"  carry." 

The  last  ofF-key  strains  of  "  Columbia  "  moaned  out, 
and  the  sweating  musicians  laid  aside  their  instruments. 

A  gold-laced  Mexican,  whose  uniform  coat  bore  as 
many  decorations  as  a  champion  swimmer's,  stepped 
into  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  platform,  unrolled 
a  terrifying  parchment  document  that  jingled  with 
seals,  cleared  his  throat  and  prepared  to  read.  Gen- 
eral Scott  folded  his  plump  arms  across  his  plumper 
chest,  assumed  an  air  of  gracious  dignity,  and  prepared 
to  listen. 

His  staff  and  the  civilians  on  the  dais  stood  in  im- 
pressive attitudes  to  hear  a  document  in  a  tongue  few 
of  them  had  troubled  to  master;  and  prepared  to  be 
bored. 

None  of  the  three  sets  of  preparations  was  destined 
to  ripen  into  fulfillment. 

For  just  then,  riding  unceremoniously  through  the 
close-packed  crowd  of  natives  at  the  left  of  the  dais, 
appeared  a  horseman  in  the  fatigue  uniform  of  a  colonel 
of  cavalry.  His  uniform  was  stained  and  old,  and  was 
further  disfigured  by  a  coating  of  white  dust  and  foam- 
fleck.  The  big  sorrel  horse  was  sweat-streaked  and 
evidently  half-exhausted. 


e  **  DAD '' 

The  man  took  in  the  scene  in  a  single  quick  look. 
Touching  his  tired  horse  with  the  spur,  he  rode  straight 
up  to  the  dais,  almost  tramping  the  Mexican  dignitary 
under  foot;  saluted  mechanically,  and  then  sat  blink- 
ing in  moody  reverie  at  General  Scott. 

There  was  a  moment's  hush  through  which  a  bugle 
call  was  drifted,  faint  but  wholly  audible  from  the  Amer- 
ican camp  far  to  the  east  of  the  plaza.  Scott  squinted 
in  annoyed  perplexity  at  the  newcomer. 

The  latter  suddenly  straightened  in  the  saddle,  sa- 
luted again  and  rasped  out : 

"  Lieutenant-Colonel  James  Brinton  of  General  Tay- 
lor's personal  staff.  Present  in  reply  to  General 
Scott's  request  that  General  Taylor  send  a  representa- 
tive to  this  celebration." 

Real  pleasure  effaced  the  annoyance  in  Scott's  face. 
Even  as  no  Roman  triumph  was  complete  without  the 
presence  of  humbled  rivals,  so  his  day  of  glory  was  im- 
measurably sweetened  by  the  fact  that  the  general 
whose  prowess  had  all  but  overshadowed  his  own  was, 
by  proxy  at  least,  a  witness  to  the  scene. 

Scott  beamed  with  lofty  graciousness  on  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  James  Brinton.  He  would  vastly  have  pre- 
ferred that  his  rival's  delegate  should  have  looked  more 
like  a  military  tailor's  dummy,  on  this  day  of  days, 
and  less  like  a  dust-sprinkled  scarecrow. 

But  Scott  had  sent  somewhat  belated  word  —  an 
afterthought  —  to  Taylor. 

The  distance  was  long.  He  had  scarce  expected  that 
any  representative  of  the  other  would  be  able  to  reach 


THE  INTERRUPTION  7 

the  spot  on  time.  Even  more  likely  his  rival  would 
plead  lack  of  time  as  excuse  for  failure  to  comply. 

The  evidences  of  haste  and  hard  riding  on  Brinton's 
part  were,  perhaps,  In  their  way  as  high  a  tribute  to 
the  occasion  as  could  well  have  been  paid  by  more  gaudy 
costume.     Wherefore,  the  smile  of  lofty  welcome. 

"  I  thank  General  Taylor  for  his  courtesy,"  said  the 
commanding  general,  "  and  I  commend  his  representa- 
tive's speed.  Leave  your  horse  with  an  orderly.  Colo- 
nel Brinton.     I  have  had  a  seat  reserved  for  you  here." 

Scott  turned  again  toward  the  Mexican  official  who, 
shuffling  and  fidgeting,  was  trying  to  find  some  new 
position  wherefrom  to  launch  his  many-sealed  address. 

But  before  the  general  could  request  the  reader  to 
proceed  Brinton  interposed. 

With  ponderous  gravity  he  maneuvered  his  horse 
so  that  the  tired  brute's  flank  well-nigh  collided  with  the 
Mexican.  Thus,  having  sent  the  official  scuttling  out 
of  the  exact  center  of  the  space  before  the  platform, 
Brinton  reined  his  mount  Into  the  hurriedly  vacated 
spot. 

General  Scott  scowled.  One  of  the  broadcloth-clad 
civilians  snickered. 

The  staff  stared  open-eyed.  This  solemn  equestrian 
with  the  bloodshot  eyes  and  drawn  face  was  behaving 
with  strange  lack  of  military  decorum  in  the  presence 
of  his  chief. 

"  General  Scott,"  declaimed  Brinton  in  a  voice  which, 
though  not  consciously  uplifted,  penetrated  through 
the  still  noonday  air  to  the  far  corners  of  the  plaza. 


8  " DAD " 

"  General  Scott,  I  am  going  to  say  just  a  few  words.'' 

Again  the  general's  Jovelike  displeasure  softened. 
This  interruption  in  the  cut-and-dried  proceedings  of 
the  day  grated  harshly  upon  his  craze  for  method. 
Yet,  on  an  instant's  thought,  he  recognized  its  prob- 
able value. 

That  his  rival's  proxy  should  ride  up  to  the  dais  in 
this  dramatic  fashion  and  there  publicly  transmit  Gen- 
eral Taylor's  respects  and  compliments,  was  an  unan- 
nounced but  none  the  less  acceptable  feature  of  the 
programme.  It  was  a  tribute  that  ought  to  silence 
forever  the  oft-repeated  Mexican  query  as  to  whether 
or  not  Scott  outranked  Taylor. 

With  an  Olympian  nod,  the  general  said : 

"  Proceed,  sir.  I  am  ready  to  hear  General  Taylor's 
message." 

"  General  Scott,"  began  Brinton  once  more,  and  this 
time  his  deep  voice  rose  to  oratorical  volume,  "  on  the 
platform  before  me  I  behold  a  sea  of  upturned  faces. 
And  not  one  honest  face  In  the  lot.  I  see  in  the  place 
of  honor  —  the  place  by  rights  due  to  General  Tay- 
lor—  a  pompous  and  fat  popinjay,  lovingly  known 
throughout  the  Union  as  *  Old  Fuss-and-Feathers.'  I 
see  — " 

The  dais  was  in  an  uproar.  A  sheaf  of  sabers  were 
whipped  sibilantly  from  their  scabbards. 

Scott,  his  rotund  face  purple,  rolled  out  of  his  seat 
and  onto  his  plump  legs. 

"  Sir !  "  he  bellowed.  *'  Consider  yourself  under  ar- 
rest !     General  Taylor  — " 


THE  INTERRUPTION  9 

"  General  Taylor,"  snarled  Brinton,  '*  sent  me  here 
with  some  fool  message  or  other.  It  was  congratula- 
tory, I  believe,  and  therefore  hypocritical.  I've  forgot- 
ten it.  Because  it  was  too  good  to  waste  on  the  man 
who  has  tried  to  reap  where  Taylor  sowed  —  the  jackal 
that  seeks  to  ape  our  lion.  And  I  left  my  dress  uni- 
form at  the  fonda,  back  there,  too.  Why  should  I  put 
it  on  just  to  humor  old  Fuss-and-Feathers ?  " 

By  this  time  fifty  officers  were  clambering  down  from 
the  dais  or  running  up  from  the  edges  of  the  cleared 
space  to  silence  the  man  who  had  spoiled  their  pa- 
tron's day  of  homage. 

Brinton  heeded  their  approach  not  at  all.  Shifting 
in  his  saddle  he  faced  the  throng  of  gaping  natives. 

"  Mexicanos !  "  he  called  in  Spanish.  "  You  have 
been  conquered.  But  it  was  by  General  Taylor,  Not 
by  this  overdressed  old  incompetent  who  has  stolen  Tay- 
lor's laurels.     He  — " 

The  harangue  ended  abruptly. 

A  dozen  hands  were  upon  the  speaker.  A  dozen 
hands  dragged  him  from  the  saddle.  A  dozen  hands 
itched  to  close  on  his  throat  and  to  choke  out  every  pos- 
sibility of  future  insult. 

But  there  was  no  need.  After  a  bare  second  of  fee- 
ble struggle  Brinton  lay  inert  and  moveless  in  his  cap- 
tors' grasp. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  exclaimed  an  officer,  leaning  over  him 
in  wonder.     "The  man's  —  the  man's  asleep!'' 


CHAPTER  II 

DISGRACE 

W INFIELD  SCOTT,  the  ''general  commanding" 
the  United  States  armies,  sat  in  the  high-ceiled 
living-room  of  his  temporary  headquarters. 

Night  had  come  —  the  night  of  the  day  that  was  to 
have  marked  so  elaborate  a  tribute  to  the  United  States 
in  the  person  of  the  general  commanding. 

The  general  had  discarded  his  gaudy  dress  uniform 
in  favor  of  a  fatigue  suit  that  left  his  chest  unpadded 
and  allowed  far  more  waist  room  for  a  no  longer  grace- 
fully restricted  circumference.  He  sat  at  the  head  of 
a  deal  table  whereon  burned  two  sconces  of  candles. 

The  center  of  the  room,  where  stood  the  table,  was 
softly  alight,  but  ceiling  and  walls  were  in  wavering 
gloom. 

The  general  was  writing,  handling  his  white  quill-pen 
with  wondrous  facility,  considering  the  size  and  gnarled 
condition  of  his  hands. 

He  came  to  the  end  of  a  page,  reached  ponderously 
across  the  table  for  a  perforated  box,  and  carefully 
sanded  the  ink-scrawled  sheet ;  then  started  on  another 
page.  His  rubicund  face  wore  a  scowl,  and  his  shaven 
lip-corners  were  almost  ludicrously  drawn  down. 

10 


DISGRACE  11 

At  the  first  line  of  the  new  page  he  paused  and  looked 
up  from  under  his  bushy,  white  brows,  threateningly 
as  might  a  charging  bull.  An  orderly  stood  in  the  dim- 
lit  doorway  opposite  him. 

"  Captain  Grant,  sir,"  reported  the  orderly,  salut- 
ing. 

A  grunt  from  Scott  and  the  man  withdrew.  Pres- 
ently in  his  place  entered  a  thick-set  officer  of  middle 
height,  clean-shaven,  and  evidently  still  in  the  late  twen- 
ties or  very  early  thirties. 

"  WeU?  "  rapped  out  Scott. 

"  He  is  awake,  sir,"  replied  Captain  Grant,  "  and 
quite  sober  again.     I  made  the  inquiries  you  ordered." 

"  Well  ?  "  again  demanded  the  general. 

"  He  is  Lieutenant-Colonel  James  Brinton  of  General 
Taylor's  staff,  as  he  said,"  went  on  Grant.  "  And  he 
was  sent  here  with  a  message  from  General  Taylor. 
The  message  — " 

"  Never  mind  the  message,  sir ! "  broke  in  General 
Scott.     «  That  can  wait." 

"  Colonel  Brinton  says,"  continued  the  unruflBed  cap- 
tain, **  that  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  city  an  hour 
before  the  time  set  for  the  celebration.  He  had  ridden 
hard,  having  miscalculated  the  time. 

"  When  he  found  he  had  an  hour  on  his  hands  he 
stopped  at  a  fonda  to  quench  his  thirst.  They  offered 
him  pulque.  He  had  never  before  tasted  it,  and  he 
drank  several  glasses  in  quick  succession.  That  is  the 
last  thing  he  remembers  until  he  woke  in  the  guard- 
house half  an  hour  ago." 


12  "  DAD  " 

"  Drunk !  "  sneered  the  general.  "  Drunk  on  a  mili- 
tary mission.  What  I  might  have  expected  from  one 
of  Taylor's  men."  ^ 

"  I  have  been  talking  with  two  or  three  oflScers  who 
were  with  General  Taylor  last  year,"  ventured  Captain 
Grant.  "  And  they  tell  me  Colonel  Brinton  is  not  a 
drinking  man.     His  record  is  good  and  — " 

"  His  record  ends  here  and  now,"  interrupted  Scott, 
"  as  far  as  the  United  States  army  is  concerned.  I 
am  writing  an  account  of  the  case  to  President  Polk. 
He  will  indorse  the  action  I  am  about  to  take.  A  dras- 
tic action  such  as  is  needed  to  prevent  any  repetition 
of  such  disgraceful  conduct  among  American  officers  in 
Mexico.     Bring  the  man  here." 

Grant  saluted  and  turned  toward  the  door.  On  the 
threshold  he  paused.  General  Scott,  blinking  at  him 
through  the  shadows,  said  peremptorily: 

"  You  may  go,  Captain  Grant.  Bring  him  here  at 
once." 

"  Pulque  is  not  the  kind  of  liquor  our  men  are  used 
to,  general,"  hesitated  the  captain.  "  A  man  who  does 
not  know  its  strange  effects  might  readily  — " 

"  For  an  officer  with  a  reputation  for  taciturnity, 
Captain  Grant,"  said  Scott  coldly,  "  you  are  wasting  a 
great  deal  of  breath.  Bring  the  man  here,  and  after 
that  you  may  retire  to  your  quarters." 

Grant  saluted  again  and  left  the  room. 

To  the  general's  long-nursed  wrath  the  well-meant 
intercession  added  fresh  zest.  He  straightened  himself 
in  his  chair,  loosened  his  shirt  at  the  throat,  and  sat 


DISGRACE  13 

staring  in  expectant  fury  at  the  dark  gap  the  oblong 
of  the  open  doorway  made  in  the  scarce-lighter  wall. 

Presently  Grant's  dimly  seen  figure  reappeared  in 
the  opening.  The  captain  raised  his  hand  to  his  fa- 
tigue cap,  faced  about  and  vanished,  leaving  in  his 
place  a  second  and  taller  figure. 

The  newcomer,  at  a  rough  word  of  command  from 
Scott,  slowly  moved  forward  into  the  radius  of  candle- 
light. 

His  hair  and  clothes  were  in  disorder,  his  face  was 
pasty,  and  his  eyes  were  red  and  bleared.  The  hand 
that  went  to  his  throbbing  head,  as  he  stood  at  atten- 
tion across  the  table  from  Scott,  trembled  from  nerve- 
rack. 

The  general  leaned  back  again  in  his  chair  and  eyed 
Brinton  through  half-shut  lids.  Now  that  his  victim 
was  actually  in  his  presence  the  old  chief  was  able  to 
force  back  rage  for  the  moment  and  to  substitute  for  it 
the  no  less  fierce  martinet  discipline  for  which  he  had 
long  been  famed. 

"  You  are  Lieutenant-Colonel  James  Brinton  ?  "  he 
asked.     "  Of  General  Taylor's  stafF,  I  believe?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  came  the  unsteady  reply. 

"  You  were  sent  here  by  General  Taylor  with  a  mes- 
sage to  me?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Which  message  you  publicly  delivered  in  the  plaza 
to-day." 

"  No,  sir !  "  almost  shouted  Brinton. 

The  involuntary  eagerness  wherewith  he  made  the  de- 


14  "  DAD  " 

nial  drove  drink-pains  tearing  madly  through  his  head 
and  sent  an  ensuing  wave  of  nausea  over  his  whole 
numbed  body. 

"  No?  '*  queried  Scott  with  dangerous  gentleness. 

"  No,  sir.  At  least  —  I  —  I  have  no  recollection  of 
what  I  said  to  you  to-day.  But  from  what  Captain 
Grant  and  the  others  tell  me  — " 

"  So?  "  put  in  Scott  in  seeming  amazement.  "  Gen- 
eral Taylor  entrusted  you  with  a  message  to  me  and 
you  have  no  recollection  of  delivering  it?  General 
Taylor  has  indeed  an  excellent  knowledge  of  men. 
When  it  comes  to  selecting  a  trustworthy  courier  or 
representative  — '' 

"  I  remember  the  message,  sir,''  said  Brinton,  the 
pastiness  of  his  cheeks  tinged  with  red.  "  But  I  am 
told  I  did  not  deliver  it ;  that  I  said  — '* 

"I  am  a  rough  soldier.  Colonel  Brinton,"  returned 
Scott.  "  I  am  not  a  member  of  the  diplomatic  corps. 
My  mind  cannot  grasp  the  intricacies  of  General  Tay- 
lor's motive  in  sending  here  a  representative  who  admits 
that  he  had  one  message  to  deliver,  that  he  did  not  de- 
liver it,  and  that  he  delivered  another  message  whose 
purport  he  cannot  remember.  If  General  Taylor  deals 
with  other  military  affairs  as  wisely  as  he  chooses  his 
messengers  — " 

"  General  Taylor's  unbroken  line  of  triumphs  speaks 
for  him,  sir ! "  flashed  Brinton. 

"  And  you  are  one  of  those  triumphs  ?  A  fair  sam- 
ple of  the  rest?  " 

"  I  was  drunk,  sir." 


DISGRACE  15 

"  No !  You  astonish  me.  And  in  vino  Veritas? 
When  your  tongue  was  unguarded  by  your  brain,  you 
inadvertently  expressed  opinions  of  me  that  you  and 
the  rest  of  General  Taylor's  staff  have  no  doubt  fre- 
quently heard  from  your  chief?  '* 

"  No,  sir.  I  have  never  heard  General  Taylor  speak 
slightingly  of  you  nor  of  any  other  man." 

*'  Really,''  said  Scott  incredulously ;  then,  feeling  he 
had  almost  exhausted  his  ability  to  torture  the  man 
through  the  latter's  loyalty  to  Taylor,  he  began  on  a 
new  tack, 

"  Then,  Colonel  Brinfon,"  he  charged,  dropping  the 
ironic  suavity  that  had  sat  upon  him  as  gracefully  as 
a  satin  coat  on  a  camel,  "  your  insult  to  me  to-day  was 
gratuitous  ?  " 

"  If  a  contrite  apology  will  — " 

"  It  will  not.  The  case  stands  like  this :  in  time  of 
war  and  in  the  enemy's  country  you  were  entrusted  with 
a  message  from  one  of  your  country's  generals  to  an- 
other. You  suppressed  that  message  and  substituted 
one  wholly  different.  Do  you  acknowledge  that,  Colo- 
nel Brinton?  " 

Brinton  opened  his  mouth  as  though  to  protest 
against  this  peculiar  version  of  the  affair.  Before  he 
could  speak  Scott  continued: 

"  Or  am  I  to  believe  that  General  Taylor  so  far  for- 
got himself  as  to  send  the  message  you  delivered  to- 
day? If  so,  in  my  report  to  the  President  I  shall 
embody  — " 

*'  No,  no ! "  exclaimed  Brinton,  covertly  moistening 


16  "  DAD '' 

his  cracked  lips  and  seeking  to  rally  his  benumbed  brain 
to  a  comprehension  of  what  was  going  on. 

"  Then,''  pursued  Scott,  "  you  do  Acknowledge  that 
in  war-time  you  deliberately  suppressed  the"  message 
sent  by  one  general  to  another  and  that  you  willfully 
substituted  — " 

"  Y-yes,  sir,"  muttered  Brinton. 

"  Very  good.  As  an  oflScer  of  the  United  States 
army  you  are  familiar,  Colonel  Brinton,  with  the  arti- 
cles of  war.?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  know  the  penalty  attaching  to  such  a  military 
crime  as  you  confess  you  have  committed  ?  " 

Brinton  squared  his  shoulders,  raised  his  pain-crazed 
head,  and  made  answer: 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Scott  paused  for  an  instant  as  though  to  let  the  fact 
sink  in,  then  was  off  on  a  new  theme. 

"  How  old  are  you.  Colonel  Brinton.'^  "  he  asked. 

"  Forty-one,  sir." 

"A  West  Pointer.?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Militia.  I  raised  a  cavalry  company  in 
Ideala,  Ohio,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  present  war.  I 
am  a  merchant  there." 

**  You  are  married  ?  " 

"  I  was  married,  sir." 

"  A  widower.?     You  have  children?  " 

"  One  son,  sir  —  and  one  grandson." 

"  Grandson ! " 

^*  I  married  at  nineteen,"  answered  Brinton,  sorely 


DISGRACE  17 

puzzled  at  this  odd  trend  of  the  queries.  *^  My  son  mar- 
ried at  twenty.     His  son  was  born  since  I  left  Ideala." 

"  Colonel  Brinton,"  resumed  Scott,  "  for  the  sake  of 
your  son,  and  for  the  grandson  you  have  never  yet 
seen,  I  am  inclined  to  be  merciful  in  dealing  with  you. 
For  insubordination,  for  insulting  the  general  com- 
manding, for  malicious  substitution  of  a  verbal  dis- 
patch, a  court  martial  would  unquestionably  condemn 
you  to  a  long  term  of  imprisonment,  if  not  to  death. 
Are  you  content  to  waive  court  martial  and  to  leave 
your  punishment  to  my  discretion?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Brinton,  the  reaction  and  nausea 
from  his  recent  spree  once  more  dulling  his  mind  almost 
to  coma, 

"I  —  I  understand  the  idea,"  he  went  on  sleepily. 
"  You  don't  want  to  make  a  martyr  of  me  and  have 
the  story  told  all  over  America.  You  prefer  to  kick 
me  out  of  the  army  with  no  fuss  and  feathers." 

He  spoke  almost  subconsciously,  not  realizing  in  his 
momentary  numbness  of  brain  that  he  was  thinking 
aloud. 

Scott's  carefully  repressed  rage  broke  its  bounds  at 
hearing  his  motives  so  mercilessly  voiced.  Nor  did 
Brinton's  unlucky  use  of  the  phrase  "  fuss  and  feath- 
ers " —  Scott's  favorite  nickname  among  his  swarm  of 
enemies  —  soften  matters. 

"  Colonel  Brinton ! "  roared  the  general,  getting  to 
his  feet.  "  You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  uniform  of  the 
United  States  army,  and  to  the  mother  who  bore  you. 
You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  flag,  and  this  day  you  have 


18  "  DAD  " 

made  your  army  and  its  general  a  laughing  stock  before 
their  enemies.  You  are  a  drunkard  and  an  incompe- 
tent ;  unfit  to  wear  a  uniform !  "  ^ 

Beside  himself  with  blind  fury,  the  general  lurched 
forward  across  the  table,  seized  Brinton  by  the  shoul- 
ders, and  ripped  ofF  both  his  epaulets. 

"  You  are  herewith  degraded  from  rank !  "  he  bel- 
lowed. **  And  you  are  dishonorably  dismissed  from  the 
service  you  have  disgraced.  The  President  of  the 
United  States  will  confirm  your  dismissal.  Leave  this 
camp  inside  of  one  hour,  and  do  not  set  foot  in  an  army 
encampment  or  on  ofl5cial  ground  again.  To-morrow, 
the  announcement  of  your  dismissal  as  a  common  drunk- 
ard shall  be  read  to  every  regiment  in  the  army. 

"  Go !  Get  out  of  here !  And  go  on  foot.  The 
horse  you  rode  is  the  property  of  the  government  you 
have  disgraced.  If  you  take  him  or  any  other  army 
mount  I  will  have  you  arrested  as  a  horse-thief  and  add 
theft  to  drunkenness  and  insubordination  in  the  pub- 
lished list  of  your  achievements.     Go !  " 

Brinton  forced  his  horrified  senses  to  a  brief  rally; 
clicked  his  booted  heels  togc  ther,  raised  to  the  salute  a 
hand  that  no  longer  shook ;  wheeled,  and  with  shoulders 
squared,  marched  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  III 

OUTCAST 

A  STRETCH  of  yellow  ground  broken  here  and 
there  by  black-green  foliage  patches  and  gray 
rocks.  Above,  a  blazing  white  sun  in  a  copper  sky; 
the  hot  expanse  broken  by  an  occasional  buzzard  that 
hung  moveless  on  broad  serrated  wings  between  earth 
and  heaven. 

And  alone  —  almost  infinitesimal  in  the  boundless  ex- 
panse—  over  the  baking  area  of  plain  and  rolling 
ground  moved  a  dark  blue  speck. 

On  nearer  observation  this  speck  of  blue  resolved  it- 
self into  a  man.  A  man  whose  tangle  of  hair  was  cov- 
ered by  the  discarded  straw  sombrero  of  some  peon, 
whose  face  was  haggard  and  unshaven,  whose  body  was 
whimsically  draped  in  the  tatters  of  what  had  once  been 
a  United  States  army  uniform,  whose  feet  had  by  longj 
tramping  worn  apart  the  soles  and  uppers  of  a  once-- 
spruce  pair  of  cavalry  boots. 

More  than  a  second  glance  would  have  been  needed 
for  any  of  the  man's  former  fellow-officers  to  recognize 
in  the  military  scarecrow  the  faultlessly  groomed  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel  Brinton  of  General  Zachary   Taylor's 

personal  staff. 

19 


20  "DAD'' 

East  and  northeast  he  had  plodded ;  at  first  in  a  daze 
and  guided  only  by  the  homing  instinct. 

Leaving  General  Scott's  headquarters,  he  had  delayed 
not  a  minute  in  beginning  his  homeward  march.  Afoot 
in  a  land  where  all  save  the  meanest  rode,  he  had  shaped 
his  course  without  conscious  effort. 

Dawn  had  found  him  far  beyond  the  American  lines. 
After  that,  for  a  time,  dawn  and  noon  and  sunset  had 
been  one  to  him.  Thirst  —  the  terrible  thirst  that  fol- 
lows upon  a  pulque  debauch  —  had  gripped  him  with 
agonizing  pains. 

And  he  had  found  himself  stopping  at  cisterns  and 
even  at  roadside  puddles. 

Late  at  night  his  legs  had  given  way  as  he  breasted 
a  hill.  He  had  fallen  forward  and  slept  where  he  fell ; 
to  stagger  stiffly  onward  at  dawn.  From  a  peon  vender 
he  had  bought  a  great  stack  of  tortillas  and  a  bundle 
of  tamales  on  the  second  day,  and  had  stuffed  them  into 
all  his  pockets;  munching  now  and  then  when  he 
chanced  to  think  of  it. 

The  purchase  had  been  half-involuntary ;  some  latent 
campaigning  instinct  leading  him  to  buy  the  food  for 
future  use.  In  payment  he  had  given  a  five-dollar 
gold  piece;  the  only  coin  he  chanced  to  have  in  his 
pocket;  and  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  ask  for 
change. 

Somewhere  along  the  road  he  had  seen  the  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat  lying ;  its  frayed  brim  and  a  hole  in 
the  crown  testifying  to  its  uselessness  to  a  former  owner. 
He  had  picked  it  up  and  put  it  on,  in  exchange  for  his 


OUTCAST  21 

shelterless  military  cap,  as  a  better  shield  against  the 
sun's  broiling  heat. 

For  several  days  Brinton  continued  his  blind  progress 
northeastward. 

He  had  met  few  people.  And  at  these  he  had  not  so 
much  as  glanced. 

Such  of  them  as  were  Mexicans  noted  appraisingly 
his  ragged  state  (for  cactus  spines  and  rocks  had 
claimed  their  full  toll  of  cloth-scraps  in  the  blundering 
journey),  and  decided  he  was  not  worth  molesting  and 
had  let  him  go  in  peace, 

A  stray  American  soldier,  here  and  there,  had  taken 
him  for  a  deserter  and,  out  of  pity,  had  looked  the  other 
way.  The  war  was  practically  at  an  end.  They  saw 
no  reason  for  dragging  back  to  punishment  a  man  who 
seemed  so  anxious  to  get  home ;  nor  to  report  seeing  him. 

At  last  the  numbness  lifted,  bit  by  bit,  from  Brinton's 
mind.  And  he  knew  it  had  not  been  the  numbness  of 
drink,  but  of  shock. 

He  came  to  his  senses  to  find  himself  repeating  me- 
chanically, for  the  thousandth  time : 

"  Dishonorably  —  dismissed  —  from  the  service  you 
have  —  disgraced !  " 

The  odd  repetition  of  the  prefix  "  dis  "  in  the  three 
pregnant  words  of  the  sentence  stood  out  in  his  mem- 
ory. He  could  shut  his  eyes  and  see  Scott's  rage- 
bloated  face,  as  the  general  had  flung  the  phrase  at  him. 

*'  Dishonorably  dismissed  from  the  service  you  have 
disgraced !  " 

That  was  it.     And  the  torn-ofF  epaulets  had  dangled 


22  "  DAD  " 

from  Scott's  gnarled  fists  as  the  sentence  was  spoken. 
"  Dishonorably  dismissed !  " 

Brinton,  like  a  child  who  bites  on  a  sore  tooth,  fell  to 
recalling  his  own  father  —  veteran  of  the  war  of  1812. 

The  grandfather  whom  he  dimly  remembered  as  a 
bent,  withered  giant  —  the  once  herculean  captain  who 
at  the  battle  of  Saratoga  had  with  a  single  backhand 
stroke  of  his  cavalry  saber  sliced  off  the  head  of  a  Brit- 
ish dragoon. 

At  home  hung  the  musket  —  the  "  Queen's  Arm  "  gun 
—  that  his  great-grandfather  had  carried  in  the  French 
and  Indian  War,  and  later,  as  a  very  old  man,  at  Con- 
cord and  Lexington. 

"  Three  generations  of  them,"  he  mumbled,  half- 
aloud.  "  Fighters  all.  And  I  don't  know  how  many 
generations  before  that.  One  in  every  one  of  our  wars. 
And  I  was  the  fourth.  I  guess  it  meant  more  to  me 
than  to  any  of  them. 

"  *  Dishonorably  dismissed  from  the  service  you  have 
disgraced ' — *  Herewith  degraded  from  rank,' "  he 
added,  another  sentence  of  the  fearful  condemnation 
flashing  into  his;  thoughts. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  traveled.  He 
knew  —  some  sixth  sense  told  him  • —  he  was  moving  in 
the  right  direction  for  home. 

Home!  The  lively  little  Ohio  town  through  whose 
main  street  he  had  ridden  so  proudly,  at  the  head  of  his 
company,  not  two  years  before!  What  would  his  re- 
turn be  like? 

The    fancy    stung    Brinton    to    new    anguish.     He 


OUTCAST  23 

halted;  and  was  minded  to  shift  his  course  for  some 
refuge  where  his  name  and  his  disgrace  would  not  be 
known ;  where  he  could  begin  all  over  again. 

Then  came  the  thought  —  not  of  his  stay-at-home 
son,  but  of  the  grandson  he  had  never  seen.  And  into 
the  man's  burning  hot  eyes  came  a  mist  of  unbidden 
tears. 

His  baby  grandson  —  and  Brinton  plodded  along  his 
former  course. 

He  expected  little  sympathy  from  his  severely  cor- 
rect if  unwarlike  son ;  the  worthy  youth  who  had  so 
smugly  refused  to  join  his  father  in  going  to  the  front 
on  the  plea  that  the  business  would  suffer  if  both  senior 
and  junior  partner  were  away  for  so  long  a  time.  But 
the  grandson  — 

Brinton  passed  his  hand  over  the  unshaven  stubble  of 
his  chin;  and  sought  to  gauge  by  its  length  the  time 
his  march  had  lasted.  He  seemed  to  have  been  tramp- 
ing for  an  eternity  on  swollen  and  tender  feet  under  a 
murderous  hot  sun.  Yet  for  days  he  continued;  once 
bartering  his  watch  for  another  batch  of  tortillas. 

At  last  nature  gave  out. 

For  nearly  a  day  he  had  found  no  water.  His  lips 
were  fevered,  his  tongue  unduly  large  and  as  dry  as 
parchment.  There  was  but  the  fragment  of  one  crum- 
bling and  greasy  tortilla  left  in  his  pocket. 

He  dared  not  eat  it,  faint  though  he  was,  lest  it  add 
to  his  already  unbearable  thirst. 

He  noted,  too,  that  he  was  lurching  and  reeling  in  his 
walk.     It    appeared   to   him    that    the    buzzards    that 


24.  "  DAD  " 

floated  above  him  had  begun  to  take  a  new  and  personal 
interest  in  his  movements.  They  were  more  numerous 
than  on  earlier  days,  and  they  seemed  to  follow  him; 
flying  very  low. 

So  had  he  seen  them  track  a  sick  cavalry  horse. 

Before  him,  as  dusk  fell,  rose  a  low  ridge.  Beyond 
it,  evidently,  was  a  dip  in  the  rolling  ground,  and  be- 
yond that  rose  a  higher  ridge. 

At  sight  of  the  two  prospective  climbs,  Brinton's 
heart  turned  sick  within  him.  Then  he  set  his  teeth 
and  breasted  the  first  rise.  After  an  interminable  time 
he  gained  its  low  summit  and  stood,  panting  loudly,  to 
rest* 

In  the  gulch  just  below  he  saw  a  fire  twinkling 
through  the  gloom.  Brinton  took  a  step  forward. 
His  awkward  foot  trod  on  a  rolling  stone. 

Losing  his  balance  and  too  weak  to  recover  it,  he 
pitched  helplessly  forward,  fell  headlong,  and  rolled 
down  the  steep  little  slope. 

As  he  lay  at  the  bottom,  breathless  and  h-alf-stunned, 
unseen  hands  lifted  him  none  too  gently  to  his  feet.  A 
glare  of  light  was  in  his  eyes. 

He  stood  there,  swaying,  blinking,  supported  by  the 
two  men  who  had  picked  him  up. 

Then  he  saw  that  he  had  rolled  to  the  very  edge  of  a 
campfire.  Around  the  fire  lounged  a  dozen  or  more 
men  in  army  uniforms,  while  one  of  their  fellow  soldiers 
roasted,  over  a  bed  of  coals,  to  one  side  of  the  blaze,  a 
whole  kid.  Farther  on,  a  short  line  of  cavalry  horses 
were  picketed. 


OUTCAST  25 

Brinton  knew  he  had  stumbled  upon  an  American 
scouting  party.  And  he  would  have  turned  and  fled, 
but  for  the  hands  that  held  him. 

A  beardless  young  lieutenant  strolled  forward,  drawn 
by  the  exclamations  of  his  troopers.  He  eyed  the  tat- 
tered, disreputable  fugitive  in  strong  contempt ;  taking 
in,  by  the  uncertain  glow  of  the  fire,  Brinton's  general 
aspect  of  vagrancy  and  the  fact  that  he  wore  what  had 
once  been  a  cavalry  uniform. 

"  Deserter,"  at  length  announced  the  lieutenant. 
"  What  regiment  ?  " 

Brinton  made  no  reply. 

"What  regiment,  I  said?"  repeated  the  lieutenant 
sharply. 

But  shame  and  shock  held  Brinton  speechless. 

"  You  wear  a  cavalry  uniform !  "  accused  the  lieuten- 
ant.    "  In  what  regiment  are  you  a  private  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  colonel's  uniform,"  involuntarily  answered 
Brinton. 

But  so  thick  was  the  utterance  of  his  thirst-swollen 
tongue  that  his  words  were  unintelligible. 

"  Come  nearer  to  the  light !  "  ordered  the  lieutenant, 
leading  the  way  to  the  fire  from  whose  glare  Brinton 
had  been  edging  away. 

While  the  supposed  deserter  was  under  interrogation 
by  their  officer,  the  two  men  who  had  held  him  had 
released  their  grasp  on  his  feeble  arms.  Now,  as 
the  lieutenant  moved  away,  Brinton  turned  and 
bolted. 

He  made  for  the  steep  gulch-side  down  which  he  had 


26  "  DAD '' 

just  rolled.  But  before  he  could  take  a  half-dozen 
tottering  steps  the  cavalrymen  were  upon  him. 

They  dragged  him  back  to  the  fire,  yanking  him 
roughly  from  side  to  side  as  though  shaking  a  naughty 
child.  Part  of  his  torn  clothing  came  away  in  their 
grasp* 

Brinton  swayed  dizzily  and  unresistingly  at  every 
haul  and  jerk. 

"  Tie  him  up ! "  snapped  the  officer.  "  I'll  talk  to 
him  in  the  morning." 

Brinton  was  thrown  down,  and  his  legs  and  arms  were 
trussed  with  leather  bearing  reins  whose  knots  cut 
deeply  into  the  chafed  skin  of  wrists  and  ankles.  Then 
he  was  rolled  to  one  side  and  left  there  while  the  troop- 
ers gathered  around  the  now  roasted  kid. 

Even  in  his  stark  misery,  the  victim's  military  train- 
ing disgusted  him  with  the  needless  cruelty  of  his  treat- 
ment and  the  carelessness  wherewith  his  captors  were 
maintaining  their  camp. 

In  the  darkness  he  lay,  helpless,  sore  in  every  joint 
and  tortured  by  thirst.  But  for  the  time  his  bodily 
agony  was  as  nothing  to  him  by  comparison  with  the 
anguish  wherewith  his  present  plight  filled  his  mind. 

He  foresaw  that  he  would  be  carried  to  the  regimental 
headquarters  of  this  scouting  party.  Probably  to 
General  Taylor's  own  headquarters,  or  possibly  even  to 
those  of  General  Scott. 

There  the  whole  truth  must  come  to  light.  And  the 
shameful  flight  must  begin  all  over  again! 


OUTCAST  27 

Nor  could  he,  by  explaining  the  situation  to  his  jail- 
ers here,  hope  to  win  their  credence. 

They  had  evidently  been  on  a  more  or  less  prolonged 
scouting  trip.  They  could  not  know  the  story  of  his 
degradation.  Nor  could  they  be  expected  to  credit  so 
improbable  a  tale*  He  could  not  expect  them  to  be- 
lieve that  Lieutenant-Colonel  James  Brinton  —  of 
whom  they  might  or  might  not  have  heard  —  of  Gen- 
eral Taylor's  personal  staff,  was  the  scarecrow  prisoner 
they  had  seized  as  a  deserter. 

He  tugged  at  his  bunglingly  tied  wrist-bonds.  But 
he  could  not  loosen  them.  Almost  he  could  draw  one 
hand  out  from  the  leather  strap.  But  he  could  not 
quite  release  it. 

Supper  over,  a  trooper,  at  the  lieutenant's  command, 
brought  a  shallow  little  tin  dish  of  water  and  a  piece 
of  hardtack  to  where  Brinton  lay  and  set  it  beside  him. 

The  sight  of  the  water  set  the  prisoner  well-nigh  in- 
sane. Yet,  by  an  effort  that  called  for  all  his  strength 
of  mind,  he  refrained  from  drinking  it. 

Instead,  he  lay  still,  looking  up  at  the  big  soutliern 
stars  until  sentries  were  posted  for  the  first  watch  and 
the  other  troopers  rolled  into  their  blankets.  Then, 
cautiously,  he  stretched  forth  his  bound  hands  and  laid 
his  wrists  in  the  shallow  tin  dish  of  water. 

The  touch  of  the  cool  liquid  brought  on  another  mad 
craving  to  drink.  But  Brinton,  after  a  second  battle 
of  will,  conquered,  and  forebore  to  waste  the  precious 
water  in  the  mere  quenching  of  thirst. 


28  «  DAD '' 

For  ten  minutes  he  let  his  wrists  and  their  leathern 
thongs  soak  in  the  dish.  Then  he  drew  them  out  and 
exerted  all  his  weak  force  to  pulling  his  close-fastened 
wrists  asunder. 

The  leather,  as  he  had  foreseen,  had  softened  and 
stretched  from  immersion.  A  desperate  tug  that 
scraped  off  most  of  the  skin  of  one  wrist  —  and  his 
right  hand  was  free. 

It  was  a  simple  matter  to  double  over  and  to  reach 
the  bonds  that  tied  his  ankles.  The  knot  was  soon  un- 
tied.    And  Brinton  lay  unbound  and  half  fainting. 

For  hours  he  lay  thus.  Then,  at  a  change  of  sen- 
tries, he  began  to  wriggle  noiselessly  away  from  the 
camp. 

Giving  the  drowsy  sentry  a  wide  berth,  he  crept  on 
hands  and  knees  through  the  darkness  until  the  camp 
lay  a  furlong  behind  him  and  the  sides  of  the  farther 
and  higher  ridge  loomed  directly  above  him. 

An  hour  later,  at  first  glimmer  of  dawn,  Brinton 
gained  the  ridge's  summit  and  lay  resting  for  a  time  on 
its  crest.  After  which  he  rose  and  looked  ahead.  In 
front  of  him,  far  below,  and  a  few  miles  beyond  the 
ridge,  something  broad  and  silvery  lay  glittering  in  the 
dawn  light. 

With  a  hoarse  cry,  Brinton  recognized  it. 

"  The  Rio  Grande !  "  he  croaked.  "  The  Rio  Grande ! 
Yonder  to  the  left  is  the  ford  we  crossed !  And  —  be- 
yond, lies  God's  country !  " 

At  noon,  Brinton  reached  the  river's  bank.  Hope 
had  replaced  strength  and  had  made  the  last  stage  of 


OUTCAST  29 

the  journey  possible.  Waist  deep  he  waded  Into  the 
stream,  crouching  down  and  rolling  over  in  the  tepid 
water;  sucking  in  pints  of  it  as  he  assuaged  his  thirst. 

To  his  feet  once  more  and  floundering  on,  across  the 
ford;  then  he  fell  on  his  face  at  full  length,  on  the 
northern  bank;  his  hands  digging  deeply  into  the  soil. 

"  My  country !  "  he  sobbed,  hysterically.  "  My  own, 
own  country ! " 

Then,  as  an  echo,  chilling  his  wild  joy,  he  found  him- 
self murmuring  incoherently: 

"  Dishonorably  —  dismissed !  "  ^ 


CHAPTER  IV 

FOUETEEN    YEARS    lATEE 

^  'inVAD  "  leaned  right  luxuriously  against  the  bar  of 

^^  the  Eagle  House,  a  brimming  whisky-skin  in  one 
hand,  a  long  and  ill-smelling  cigar  in  the  other. 

His  shining  frock  coat  was  thrown  back  wide  from 
a  vest  that  had  once  been  white.  A  slouch  hat  was 
pushed  far  back  on  his  head,  and  a  mass  of  gray-white 
hair  fell  carelessly  over  his  forehead.  His  somewhat 
bleared  eyes  gazed  loftily  upon  the  habitues  of  the 
place,  and  his  aristocratic,  but  slightly  reddened  nose 
was  curved  in  mild  contempt  at  something  one  of  them 
happened  at  that  moment  to  be  saying. 

Dad  was  an  imposing  figure.  There  was  not  lacking 
those  who  declared  he  was  even  yet  a  fine  figure  of  a 
man  —  even  though  a  covert  grin  went  with  the  praise. 

And  more  than  one  woman  was  wont  to  follow,  with 
a  gaze  almost  as  admiring  as  it  was  disapproving,  his 
stately  thrice-a-day  progress  down  Main  Street  from 
his  riverside  cottage  to  the  Eagle  barroom. 

No  one  in  Ideala  was  so  ignorant  of  Dad's  habits  as 
to  imagine  for  a  moment  that  three  daily  visits  to  the 
Eagle  entailed  only  three  drinks  thereat.  Indeed,  his 
regular  evening  sojourn  at  that  hospitable  tavern  was 

30 


FOURTEEN  YEARS  LATER  31 

often  prolonged  until  closing  time,  and  his  return  bed- 
ward  was  not  infrequently  under  a  highly  necessary  es- 
cort. 

Still,  though  he  might  —  and  continuously  did  — 
drink  with  them,  Dad  could  never  be  induced  to  regard 
the  Eagle's  other  patrons  as  his  equals ;  either  mentally 
or  morally.     And  he  took  no  pains  to  cloak  his  feelings. 

Which  did  not  add  appreciably  to  his  popularity 
among  the  convivial  band. 

To-day  —  on  his  first  morning  visit  —  Dad  was  un- 
wontedly  superior  in  his  bearing  toward  his  fellow  tip- 
plers. 

For  the  talk  was  on  war  —  the  time  was  the  sum- 
mer of  1861  —  and  the  Civil  War  had  already  entered 
bloodily  upon  the  first  of  its  four  years. 

One  company,  three  months  earlier,  had  marched 
g^yly  forth  from  Ideala  upon  the  calcium  path  of 
patriotism  —  to  be  shot  to  atoms  in  the  first  battle  of 
Manassas.  And  now  a  second  and  a  third  were  form- 
ing. 

"  Yes,"  a  crippled  oldster  was  declaring  from  the  far 
end  of  the  bar,  his  words  percolating  ludicrously 
through  a  double  set  of  misfit  teeth,  "  yes,  gentlemen. 
Uncle  Sam  will  find  he's  in  for  a  good  long  siege  of  it 
before  he's  done.  He  thought  'he'd  have  Jeff  Davis 
licked  to  a  standstill  in  three  months.  Well,  the  three 
months  are  up.  And,  so  far,  it's  been  Uncle  Jeff  that's 
done  all  the  licking.  I  tell  you,  this  war's  going  to  last 
out  the  year  and  maybe  part  of  next." 

Dad,  through  his  mildly  rubicund  nose,  made  a  weird 


32  "  DAD '' 

sound,  variously  and  incorrectly  expressed  in  print  as 
"  H-m !  "  or  "  Humph !  "  It  was  a  sound  as  derisive 
as  it  was  wordless.  1 

The  misfit-teeth  man  glowered  at  him. 

"  Well,"  he  drawled,  "  I  take  it.  Dad,  that  you  don't 
agree  with  me.  You  generally  don't.  But  that  don't 
make  it  any  the  less  true." 

"No,  Mr.  Stage,"  returned  Dad,  "I  don't.  This 
war  will  be  wound  up  inside  of  another  three  months  at 
longest.  When  the  fighting  spirit  of  the  North  is  once 
aroused  —  when  this  glorious  Union,  one  and  indis- 
soluble, once  sets  its  foot  down;  the  Confederacy  will 
collapse  like  a  pricked  toy  balloon.  You  must  grant 
me  credence,  when  I  prophesy  this.  I  know  the  United 
States  and  I  know  war." 

"  Let  me  see,"  mused  Stage,  scratching  his  chin  in 
deep  reflection.  "  Let  me  see  —  you  do  know  war, 
don't  you,  now?  I  seem  to  remember  you  were  in  our 
little  unpleasantness  down  in  Mexico,  some  years  back. 
And  speaking  of  wars,  I  wonder  you  don't  enlist. 
You're  still  a  hearty  man.  And  the  North  needs  men. 
Why  not  go  to  the  front  again  ?  " 

Dad's  face  flushed  so  hotly  that  his  nose  actually 
paled  by  contrast. 

"I  —  I  am  forced  to  remain  at  home  for  business 
reasons,"  he  said,  coldly.     "  Otherwise  — " 

"  There's  a  whole  lot  of  '  otherwises,'  these  days," 
commented  Stage.  "  Some  of  'em  pleading  business 
and  some  playing  sick." 

"  If  you  are  questioning  my  courage,  Mr.  Stage," 


FOURTEEN  YEARS  LATER  33 

sternly  interposed  Dad,  emptying  his  whisky-skin  at  a 
gulp,  "  let  me  tell  you  that  when  I  was  in  Mexico  — " 

"  Mexico,"  echoed  the  cripple,  chuckling  as  at  some 
pleasant  memory.  "  That's  right,  Mexico.  I'd  for- 
got. You  held  a  commission  of  some  sort  in  our  war 
down  there,  didn't  you?  Queer  you  never  showed  it  to 
any  of  us.  It'd  be  inter^^fing  to  see.  Did  you  stay 
out  the  whole  war?  I  disremember,  just  now.  Or  did 
you  skedaddle  before  it  was  over?  " 

A  furtive  snicker  ran  through  the  little  knot  of  loung- 
ers.    Someone  guffawed. 

Dad  swept  the  assemblage  with  an  eye  whose  hint  of 
bleariness  had  momentarily  been  burned  away  by  a  blaze 
that  startled  them  all. 

Then,  settling  his  hat  farther  forward  on  his  head, 
he  strode  out  into  the  street  without  answering.  As 
he  passed  through  the  swing-door  he  heard  Stage's 
wheezy  voice  announce  to  nobody  in  particular: 

"  I  guess  that's  the  time  I  scored  one  —  or  maybe  a 
couple  or  more  —  on  Mr.  James  Brinton,  Esq.  An- 
other time  he  won't  crow  quite  so  loud,  now  that  I've 
took  him  down  a  peg.  He  needn't  think  he  can  be  cock- 
of-the-walk  over  us  all  the  time.  Him  that  slunk  back 
here  in  rags  fourteen  years  ago,  after  he  was  kicked 
out  of  the  army  for  drunk  and  disorderly !  " 

The  departing  listener  winced  as  he  shuffled  away 
out  of  ear-shot. 

It  was  one  thing  to  know  that  all  the  neighborhood 
must  be  aware  of  his  past.  It  was  another  to  have  the 
knowledge  supplemented  by  auricular  proof.     And  the 


34  ^'DAD" 

words,  chuckled  unctuously  from  between  old  Stagers 
misfit  teeth-sets,  stung  like  so  many  hornets. 

Fourteen  years !  It  had  been  so  ]long  —  so  unbe- 
lievably long.  Surely  their  space  might  well  have 
dimmed  the  memory  of  a  dead-and-gone  disgrace.  He 
himself  —  except  at  excruciating  moments  like  this  — 
had  taught  himself  to  forget.  Why  couldn't  others  — 
especially  such  of  them  as  consistently  used  the  same 
form  of  bottled  nepenthe  as  did  he? 

It  was  so  profitless  to  conjure  up  ghosts.  Why  not 
"  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,"  as  this  new  Eastern 
poet,  Longfellow,  had  recently  put  it  in  a  poem  re- 
printed in  the  Ideala  Herald? 

Yet  Stage's  slur  had  awakened  memories  as  fierce  as 
they  were  infrequent.  And  they  dogged  Dad's  lagging 
steps  as  he  shambled  up  Main  Street,  goading  him  into 
an  unwontedly  lively  pace. 

Morbidly  he  forced  his  memory  to  cast  back  to  that 
horror  trip  across  Mexico ;  to  the  shamefaced  and  semi- 
delirious  return  of  the  travel-beaten  outcast  to  his  old 
home. 

And  now  as  though  it  were  but  a  day  before,  instead 
of  fourteen  endless  years,  he  recalled  that  return :  The 
grins  or  contempt  of  his  old  neighbors;  his  son's  dis- 
gust, veiled  in  solicitude  for  the  half-dead  wanderer ;  the 
totally  unveiled  scorn  of  his  son's  rich  young  wife. 

It  had  all  been  a  hideous  nightmare.  To  soften  its 
horror  he  had  —  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  —  willfully 
gotten  drunk. 

And  liquor  had  laid  a  kindly  benumbing  hand  on  the 


FOURTEEN  YEARS  LATER  35 

shame-torn  spirit.  So  kindly  and  so  benumbing  a 
touch  that  he  had  sought  its  comfort  again  and  yet 
again. 

His  was  not  the  drunkard  temperament.  He  drank, 
at  first  not  for  what  drink  could  give  him,  but  for  what 
it  could  and  did  forgive  him.  So  that,  in  time,  under 
the  comforter's  aid,  life  had  lost  its  razor-edge,  and  the 
man  was  well  content  to  drift  on  in  not  unhappy  worth- 
lessness. 

In  tliC  beginning  he  had  striven  to  take  up  his  busi- 
ness V  lere,  two  years  earlier,  he  had  dropped  it;  the 
businv^ss  that  in  his  absence  had  thriven  and  grown  right 
flourishingly  under  the  wise  management  of  his  splen- 
didly faultless  son. 

But  two  years  in  the  open  and  the  aftermath  of  dis- 
grace had  done  much  to  unfit  the  older  man  for  every- 
day counting-room  routine. 

New  methods,  too,  had  come  into  vogue;  methods  to 
which  he  could  not  readily  adapt  himself  and  which  were 
as  second  nature  to  his  son.  The  latter,  helped  by  his 
wife's  money,  had  branched  out  vigorously  and  wisely 
in  many  lines  of  commerce. 

The  father  soon  felt  himself  an  interloper  in  the 
business  he  himself  had  founded.  And  drink  did  not 
aid  either  his  work  therein  nor  his  usefulness  to  the  firm. 

Wherefore  he  had  eagerly  seized  upon  his  son's  tact- 
ful suggestion  that  the  senior  member  retire  from  active 
business  and  receive  a  small  yearly  income  from  the 
concern's  revenues. 

For  the  past  twelve  years  he  had  lived  thus ;  working 


36  "  DAD  " 

not  at  all  save  daily  In  the  garden  plot  that  surrounded 
a  cottage  he  occupied  on  the  lower,  or  river,  end  of 
Main  Street ;  a  cottage  that  had  belonged  to  his  mother 
and  that  was  renovated  for  his  use. 

Here,  tended  by  an   aged  negro  —  a   former  slave 

—  ex-Lieutenant-Colonel  James  Brinton  rotted  his 
years  away;  while  at  the  far  end  of  town,  in  the  new 
residence,  or  "  Hill  "  section,  dwelt  his  son,  his  son's 
wife,  and  their  only  child  —  the  little  grandson  who  had 
been  born  a  few  months  before  Brinton's  return  from 
Mexico, 

Through  all  those  early  nightmare  times  it  had  been 
this  little  grandson  who  formed  James  Brinton's  one 
worthy  hold  on  life.  He  adored  the  child;  and  from 
the  beginning,  the  dissolute  human  wreck  had  com- 
manded from  the  youngster  a  greater  and  more  com- 
plete love  than  did  both  the  baby's  highly  correct  par- 
ents combined. 

Grandfather  and  grandson  had  ever  been  inseparable 

—  to  the  hopeless  horror  of  the  boy's  mother,  who 
dared  not  for  appearances'  sake  prohibit  the  intimacy 

—  and  had  found  in  each  other  an  exhaustless  fund  of 
truly  marvelous  and  worshipful  traits. 

From  babyhood,  the  child,  for  some  reason  known  to 
himself,  had  utterly  eschewed  the  stately  title  of 
"  Grandfather  "  or  even  the  milder  term  "  Grandpapa," 
and  had  called  Brinton  "  Dad."  His  own  male  parent 
he  always  addressed  decorously  as  "  Father,"  but  his 
grandfather  was  invariably  and  lovingly  "  Dad." 

The  quaint  term  from  a  child  toward  a  grandsire  had 


FOURTEEN  YEARS  LATER  37 

"  caught  the  town."  Before  many  years,  half  the  nine 
thousand  inhabitants  of  Ideala  were  hailing,  or  refer- 
ring to,  Brinton  as  "  Dad."  The  phrase  seemed  to  go 
aptly  with  his  disreputable  yet  lovably  patriarchal  per- 
sonality. 

And  ''  Dad  "  had  long  since  become  fixed  upon  him 
as  a  permanent  nickname. 

Since  the  name  had  originated  with  his  grandson, 
Brinton  willingly  accepted  it.  His  own  son  was  per- 
haps the  sole  acquaintance  who  never  used  it  toward 
him. 

When  the  South  seceded  and  the  first  call  to  arms 
rang  from  California  to  Maine,  Dad's  blood  had  stirred 
like  that  of  an  ancient  war  horse.  The  warlike  heritage 
of  centuries  of  fighters  blazed  like  fire  in  his  veins. 
His  impulse  was  to  enlist  at  once. 

Then  had  come  the  agony  of  second  thought. 

He  had  been  "  dishonorably  dismissed  from  the  serv- 
ice he  had  degraded."  How  could  he  return  to  it.^ 
Once  cashiered,  forever  casliiered. 

His  services  would  unquestionably  be  rejected;  as, 
for  example,  had  those  of  that  young  Captain  Grant 
who  had  been  so  decent  to  him  down  in  Mexico. 

Grant  had  not  been  cashiered  from  the  army  nor  had 
he  left  it  in  disgrace.  He  had  merely  resigned  that  he 
might  better  support  his  family. 

Yet  when  at  the  war's  outbreak  —  so  a  common 
friend  had  told  Brinton  —  Grant  had  written  to  the 
government  ofi*ering  his  services,  no  heed  had  been  given 
to  the  offer. 


38  "  DAD  " 

No,  Brinton  dared  not  risk  a  repulse ;  perhaps  an  in- 
sult. So  he  banished  the  tempting  war-dream;  and, 
to  keep  it  banished,  he  had  drunk  a  little  deeper. 

But  now  —  The  morning  air  was  cold  and  bracing. 
Only  a  single  drink  stood  between  him,  thus  far  to-day, 
and  stark  sobriety.  On  the  square  the  two  companies 
of  recruits  were  drilling. 

Stage's  gleefully  malicious  words  rankled  sharply 
under  Dad's  thickened,  yet  vulnerable  mental  epidermis. 
Unconsciously  his  stooping  shoulders  flattened  and  his 
steps  fell  into  time  to  the  fife-and-drum  notes  to  which 
the  recruits  were  marching  and  counter-marching. 

Up  Main  Street  strode  Dad.  And  the  once-firm 
mouth  under  the  straggling  gray  mustache  grew  firm 
and  set  as  of  old,  as  he  walked.  The  eyes,  too,  took  on 
a  less  dreamy  look  and  lost  their  film. 

Chagrin,  sobriety,  martial  music  and  hereditary  war- 
spirit  were  doing  their  work. 

Half-way  along  Main  Street,  in  front  of  an  imposing 
mercantile  establishment.  Dad  halted.  Tightening  his 
lips  and  setting  his  jaw,  he  turned  in  at  the  open 
double  doors.  Down  a  long  aisle  he  walked,  looking 
neither  to  left  nor  to  right,  nor  seeing  the  amused  and 
knowing  glances  of  sundry  clerks  he  passed. 

At  a  door  marked  "  Private,"  at  the  far  end  of  the 
store,  he  paused;  his  knuckles  raised  to  knock  on  the 
glass.  Then  he  changed  his  mind  and,  opening  the 
door,  entered  unbidden. 

He  walked  with  something  of  swagger  into  a  pleas- 


FOURTEEN  YEARS  LATER  89 

antly  appointed  office,  at  whose  fumed-oafc  desk  sat  a 
dapper  man  of  early  middle-age. 

The  man  at  the  desk  looked  up  in  momentary  vexa- 
tion at  this  abrupt  advent.  Then,  recognizing  his 
visitor,  his  somewhat  ascetic  face  took  on  a  look  of  pa- 
tient civility. 

"  Good-morning,  father,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Is  any- 
thing the  matter  ?  " 

*^  You  ask  because  I  came  into  a  store  I  used  to 
own.?  "  inquired  the  older  man. 

"  Why,  no.  Of  course  not.  You  are  always  wel- 
come.    I  only  asked — " 

"  All  right.  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  as  I  did.  I'm  not 
quite  myself  to-day,  and  — " 

He  paused  as  he  saw  an  expression  of  worry  replace 
the  patient  courteous  look  he  had  come  to  loathe  on 
his  son's  countenance, 

"  No,"  he  went  on,  in  response  to  the  unasked  query, 
"  I  am  not  drunk.  It  is  something  else  that  has  upset 
me.  Can  —  can  you  give  me  a  few  minutes  of  your 
time,  Joe  ?  " 

Mr.  Joseph  Brinton  glanced  longingly  at  a  pile  of 
unfinished  work  on  his  desk;  then,  seating  himself  and 
motioning  his  father  to  a  chair,  sighed  imperceptibly 
in  regret  as  he  said : 

"  Certainly,  sir.  Sit  down.  My  time  is  always  at 
your  disposal." 


CHAPTER  V 

PAST-WORTHY 

DAD  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  chair  and  let 
his  broad-brimmed  gray  hat  drop  to  the  floor  at 
his  side. 

The  unwonted  fit  of  purpose  that  had  brought  him 
so  aggressively  into  the  sacred  private  office,  however, 
had  now  begun  slowly  but  noticeably  to  ebb.  And,  as 
ever,  he  felt  curiously  sheepish  and  ill  at  ease  in  the 
presence  of  this  flawless  son  of  his. 

To  gain  new  hold  on  his  resolve,  and  incidentally  to 
gain  time,  he  switched  from  the  theme  that  had  brought 
him  thither  on  sudden  impulse. 

"  Is  it  true,"  he  asked,  "  is  it  true  —  what  Jimmie 
was  telling  me  —  that  you  have  enlisted  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  In  the  Second  Company.  I  ought  to  be 
drilling  with  the  rest  this  very  minute.  We  start  in 
three  days.  But  I  had  a  pressure  of  work  here  this 
morning,  and  Captain  Scofield  excused  me." 

Again  he  glanced  with  polite  furtiveness  at  his  desk. 

But  Dad  did  not  take  the  hint  nor  even  notice  the 
look.  His  face  aglow,  the  old  fellow  had  stretched 
forth  his  hand,  half-rising  eagerly  from  his  seat. 

"  Joe,  my  boy,"  he  cried,  gripping  the  slender  and 

wholly  unresponsive  fingers  of  his  son,  "  I'm  proud  of 

40 


PAST-WORTHY  41 

you!  Plumb  proud  of  you!  You'll  make  the  fifth 
generation  of  fighting  Brintons,  This  news  does  me 
good  clear  down  to  the  ground.  I  was  afraid  you'd 
think  business  came  first.  I'm  glad  to  see  your  Brinton 
blood's  red  enough  to  make  you  forget  work  for  a  while 
and  send  you  hustling  out  to  fight  for  your  country." 

The  younger  man  smiled  with  gentle  indulgence  into 
his  father's  flushed  face. 

"  I'm  afraid,  sir,"  said  he,  "  that  I  can't  claim  much 
credit  for  headlong  patriotism.  To  be  frank,  this  is 
going  to  prove  one  of  the  best  strokes  of  business  I 
ever  did.  You  see,  the  most  farseeing  men  believe  the 
war  will  not  last  more  than  three  months  longer  at 
most.     It  may  even  be  over  before  we  get  to  the  front." 

"  But  — " 

"  But  the  spirit  of  hysterical  excitement  that  goes 
under  the  name  of  patriotism  has  swept  the  whole  coun- 
try. Men  who  go  to  the  front  are  acclaimed  as  heroes. 
Those  who  stay  sanely  at  home  suffer  by  comparison. 

"  It  will  be  a  good  thing  for  me  in  this  town  and  in 
the  State  and  in  the  future  handling  of  government 
contracts  if  I  go  on  record  as  joining  the  army  at  tliis 
juncture. 

"  I  am  a  one-year  man.  If  the  war  ends  earlier  — 
as  it  will  —  many  months  earlier  —  I  have  influence 
enough,  I  think,  to  get  my  discharge.  In  any  event,  my 
patriotism  will  be  a  good  thing  for  the  firm  and  for  my 
future  here.     Business  is  slack  just  now,  and — " 

"  And  this  is  your  idea  of  serving  your  country !  " 
gasped  Dad.     "  You  measure  out  your  services  to  the 


42  "  DAD '» 

flag  as  your  clerks  measure  out  velvet!  You  sneer  at 
patriotism,  you  whose  father  and  grandfather  and 
great-grandfather —  But,  lad,  you're  joking!  You 
were  always  undemonstratite.  You're  cloaking  your 
act  of  self-sacrifice  under  — " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Joseph,  smiling  again  at  the  veteran's 
outburst.  "  I  am  quite  sincere.  I  wish  I  might  claim 
the  noble  intentions  you  try  to  credit  me  with.  But 
claptrap  is  not  in  my  line.  It  is  useful  with  the  pub- 
lic. But  I  don't  waste  it  in  talking  with  members  of 
my  family." 

The  old  man  stared  slack-jawed  at  his  faultlessly 
correct  son.  Then  his  mouth  snapped  shut  very  sud- 
denly to  choke  back  a  flood  of  furious  rebuke. 

Joseph  glanced  down  at  his  own  polished  nails; 
glanced  again  at  the  work-laden  desk  and  then  re- 
marked: 

"I  think  you  said  something  had  'upset'  you? 
That  was  the  term,  I  think.     Can  I  be  of  any  use?  " 

"  Yes,"  snorted  Dad.  "  Yes,  you  can.  I  was  half- 
afraid  to  speak  of  it  before.  But  I'm  not  now.  Joe, 
I  want  to  go  to  this  war.     I  want  to  enlist." 

"  Nonsense,  father !  You're  too  old,  for  one  thing. 
And  besides  — " 

"  Too  old?  I'm  not  quite  fifty-five.  Down  South, 
men  of  sixty  and  seventy,  and  boys  as  young  as  Jiminie 
are  already  enlisting." 

"I  beg,  sir,"  hastily  interposed  his  son,  "  you  won't 
put  such  crazy  notions  into  James's  head.  Even  at 
present  he  is  a  great  worry  to  his  mother  and  myself 


PAST-WORTHY  43 

by  his  Incessant  longing  to  become  old  enough  to  be  a 
soldier.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  harsh,  sir,  but  we  have 
traced  that  foolish  ambition  of  his  directly  to  his  talks 
with  you.     And  I  must  earnestly  beg  of  you  not  to  — " 

"  Good  little  Jimmie !  The  iSghting  spirit  skipped  a 
generation  when  it  came  to  you,  Joe.  But  Jim's  a 
Fighting  Brinton  from  the  top  of  his  red  head  to  the 
soles  of  his  stubby  little  feet." 

"  I  must  request,  sir,  that  you  put  no  more  foolish 
notions  into  — " 

"  That's  neither  here  nor  there,  Joe,"  broke  in  Dad, 
impatiently.  "  We  can  talk  about  Jimmie  another  time. 
I  want  to  go  to  the  front.  I  want  to  enlist  in  this  war. 
And  I  mean  to." 

"  Pardon  me,  father,  for  bringing  up  an  unpleasant 
subject,  but — " 

"  But,  you're  going  to  say,  I  was  kicked  out  of  the 
army  and  I  can't  get  back.  That's  what  I  came  to  see 
you  about  to-day." 

"  To  see  me  about?  "  echoed  Joseph.  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand ! " 

"  You  spoke  awhile  back  of  having  influence,"  an- 
swered Dad,  with  trembling  eagerness.  "  And  you 
have.  With  the  State  government  and  through  that 
with  the  folks  in  charge  down  in  Washington. 

"  I  believe  if  you'd  use  your  Influence  to  get  one  of 
the  Ohio  congressmen  to  put  the  matter  up  to  Presi- 
dent Lincoln,  he  would  reconsider  my  case.  They  say 
he's  a  real  man.  He  wouldn't  be  too  hard  on  a  fellow 
who  doesn't  ask  anything  better  of  him  than  a  chance  to 


44  "  DAD  " 

fight  in  the  ranks  for  the  flag  he  loves.     As  like  as  not, 
he'd  let  me  enlist. 

"  Won't  —  won't  you  see  if  you  can't  pull  wires  to 
get  the  case  put  up  before  Lincoln,  Joe?  Won't  you 
do  that?     Please,  son!  " 

He  reached  across  and  timidly  stroked  the  other's  im- 
maculate coat-sleeve. 

"  Lincoln's  a  man,  clear  through,"  he  went  on. 
"  And  he's  got  a  big  heart.     He'd  — " 

"  He  is  a  gross,  apelike  buffoon  who  is  doing  his 
best  to  make  the  Presidential  oiBSce  the  laughing-stock 
of  Europe  with  his  uncouth  ways  and  his  ribald  sto- 
ries !  "  declared  Joseph,  with  some  heat.  "  I  would  not 
accept  a  favor  at  the  hands  of  such  a  man." 

"  But  I  would,  Joe !  "  pleaded  Dad.  "  And  you're 
all  wrong  about  Lincoln.  Honest,  you  are.  I  never 
met  him.  But  I've  read  his  speeches  and  I've  talked 
with  folks  who  know  him.  I  guess  Europe  and  this 
country,  too  —  the  kid-glove  Bell-Douglas  men  —  will 
change  their  minds  about  him  before  he's  done.  Won't 
you  do  this  for  me,  Joe?  I  don't  often  ask  you  favors. 
And  this  means  such  an  awful  lot  to  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  replied  Joseph.  "  But  it  is 
quite  out  of  the  question.  Even  if  I  wished  to  lower 
myself  by  an  appeal  to  him  and  if  I  were  criminal 
enough  to  let  you  go  to  the  war,  any  request  of  mine 
to  Lincoln  would  be  refused. 

"  He  is  a  politician.  And  politicians  have  long  mem- 
ories. You  seem  to  forget  that  I  was  chairman  of  the 
reception  committee  when  Douglas  spoke  here  in  Ideala 


PAST-WORTHY  45 

last  year.  My  request  would  be  refused;  even  if  it 
chanced  to  pass  the  red-tape  barriers  and  reach  the 
President. 

"  Moreover,  I  would  not  do  such  a  thing  as  to  send 
an  old  man  into  the  ardors  of  a  campaign.  Even  such 
a  short  campaign  as  this,  from  all  the  surface  evidence, 
will  very  likely  be." 

"  I  am  not  an  old  man.  Zach  Taylor  won  the  Mexi- 
can war  when  he  was  years  older  than  I  am.  Oh,  son, 
I  want  to  do  something  for  my  country !  "  The  man's 
voice  almost  broke  in  his  cry  of  appeal. 

Joseph  glanced  critically  at  the  pleading  eyes  beneath 
the  disheveled  thatch  of  whitening  hair. 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  do  something  for  your  coun- 
try.? "  he  asked,  as  though  arguing  with  a  stupid  school- 
boy. "  Then  I'll  tell  you  how  you  can  best  do  it.  I 
am  forced  to  go  away.  I  must  leave  my  wife  and  son 
with  no  guardian  or  protector  but  yourself.  By  help- 
ing me  you  can  help  your  country. 

"  Stay  here  and  take  care  of  them.  That  will  enable 
me  to  go  to  my  duty  with  a  free  mind  and  to  keep  my 
mind  on  the  needs  of  the  nation  instead  of  fearing  al- 
ways that  some  trouble  may  befall  my  dear  ones." 

"  But,"  protested  Dad,  "  you  said  you  looked  on  this 
just  as  a  business  venture,  and — " 

"  I  spoke  lightly.  As  you  guessed,  to  avoid  praise 
for  what  is  only  my  clear  duty." 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad.     But  — " 

"  If  I  can  be  at  rest  about  my  wife  and  James,  leav- 
ing them  in  your  care  —  and  if  I  can  be  certain,"  Jo- 


46  "  DAD  " 

seph  went  on  reluctantly,  "  that  while  I  am  away  you 
yourself  will  not  —  will  not  — " 

"  Will  not  get  drunk  too  often  and  disgrace  you,"  fin- 
ished Dad.     "  I  understand.     Go  on." 

"I  —  Marcia  and  I  have  talked  it  all  over,"  contin- 
ued Joseph,  visibly  relieved,  "  and  we  have  decided  to 
ask  you  to  close  the  cottage  for  the  time  I  am  away 
and  come  up  to  our  house.  A  room  will  be  ready  for 
you  there.  And  I  shall  feel  much  easier,  leaving  you 
in  charge.  You  can  look  out  for  Marcia  and  James  so 
much  better  when  you  are  living  under  the  same  roof 
with  them.     And  so  we — " 

Slowly  Dad  rose.  Stooping,  he  picked  up  his  hat 
and  stood  facing  his  son.  The  fire  was  gone  from  his 
eyes,  the  flush  from  his  cheek.     He  looked  very  old. 

"  You're  right,  Joe,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Dead  right. 
It's  a  way  you've  got.  I  see  it.  I  was  an  old  fool. 
I'm  complimented  that  Marcia  should  want  me  at  the 
house.  Because  I  always  felt  she  hated  my  calling 
there. 

"  I'll  do  as  you  say.  I'll  take  the  best  care  of  her 
and  Jimmie  that  I  can.  And  I'll  —  I'll  try  not  to  do 
anything  while  you're  gone  to  make  you  and  Marcia 
too  much  ashamed  of  me. 

"  After  all,  I've  had  my  fighting  day.  Had  it  and 
smashed  it.  And  the  only  way  I  can  help  now  is  to 
make  it  easier  for  my  son  to  go  to  fight.  I'll  put  the 
dream  aside.     I'll  do  what  you  say." 

Turning,  he  walked  gropingly  from  the  office  and 
down  the  long  aisle.     His  sight  was  suddenly  dimmed. 


PAST-WORTHY  4f7 

So  much  so  that  he  almost  collided  with  a  well-dressed 
woman  who  had  just  entered  the  store  and  was  walking 
toward  the  oflSce. 

The  woman  drew  disgustedly  aside  from  his  wavering 
pathway  and  passed  on  toward  the  glass  door  beyond. 
The  man  had  not  seen  her. 

But  as  he  left  the  store  he  heard  one  clerk  say  to  an- 
other : 

"  Dad's  establishing  a  new  record.  Drunk  before  11 
A.  M. ;  and  pretty  near  ran  into  the  boss's  wife,  at  that." 

"I  —  I  hope  Marcia  doesn't  believe  I'm  in  that  con- 
dition," he  mused  remorsefully.  "  And  just  after  she 
was  so  kind  and  forgiving  as  to  want  me  to  take  charge 
of  the  big  house  while  Joe's  away." 

On  the  square  the  recruits  were  still  drilling,  a  crowd 
of  idlers  watching  their  gawky  maneuvers.  From  the 
group  of  onlookers,  as  Dad  emerged  into  the  street,  a 
small  figure  detached  itself  and  darted  joyously  toward 
him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    CHUMS 

' '  T  SAW  you  go  in,"  hailed  the  boy,  "  and  I  was  lay- 

-■■  ing  for  you.  I  didn't  want  to  go  in  there  with 
you  because  I'm  not  very  popular  with  father  to-day. 
What's  the  matter,  Dad?     You  look  all  done  up." 

The  little  fellow  slipped  a  grubby  hand  into  his 
grandfather's  and  looked  up  at  him  in  genuine  concern. 

There  was  nothing  of  the  Lord  Fauntleroy,  grandpa- 
lean-on-me  element  about  Jimmie  Brinton.  Short 
enough  to  merit  the  loathed  title  of  Runt,  he  was  stocky 
and  deep  of  chest.  His  hair  grew  in  very  red  and  very 
bristly  formation.  His  face  was  plenteously  freckled, 
his  mouth  rather  large,  and  his  eyes  a  palish  green. 

In  repose  his  face  was  positively  ugly.  But  then, 
neither  Jimmie  Brinton  nor  Jimmie  Brinton's  face  was 
ever  long  in  repose.  And  there  was  an  elfin  charm 
about  the  unbeautiful  youngster. 

"  I'm  feeling  all  right,  thanks,  Jimmie,"  returned 
Dad,  as  together  they  made  for  the  square.  "  At  least, 
as  all  right  as  a  man  can  hope  to  when  he's  taking  medi- 
cine he  hates  and  that  is  the  only  medicine  due  to  cure 
him." 

"Has  father  been  lecturing  you  again?" 

"  No.     Just    showing   me    my    duty.     He's    a   wise 

48 


THE  CHUMS  49 

man,  your  father,  Jimmie.  Where  he  gets  it  from  I 
don't  know.  Sometimes  he's  so  wise  it  hurts.  At  least, 
it  hurts  fooHsher  folks  like  me,  I'm  coming  to  live  at 
your  house  after  Thursday." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  boy  with  a  queer  constraint. 
"  Mother  told  me." 

"  Aren't  you  glad.^^  "  asked  Dad,  wondering  at  the 
lad's  unusual  tone. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jimmie  briefly.  "  Of  course  I  am.  But 
I'm  not  glad  for  you.  You'll  try  not  to  mind  too  much 
the  way  mother  acts,  won't  you?  " 

"  You  mustn't  talk  that  way,  son." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  kicking  at  how  she  treats  me.  I  like 
her  a  lot.  Only  she  doesn't  seem  to  know  what  a  brick 
you  are.     And  it  kind  of  riles  me." 

"  Oh,  that'll  be  all  different  now,"  prophesied  Dad. 
"  She's  changed  her  mind  about  me.  If  she  hadn't, 
would  she  be  wanting  me  to  come  up  to  the  big  house 
to  live  and  to  take  charge  of  everything  and  look  after 
you  and  her  while  Joe's  away,  fighting  for  his  coun- 
try? " 

"  H-m !  "  observed  the  boy,  non-committally. 

"  Of  course  she  wouldn't,"  declared  his  grandfather. 
"  We'll  have  a  good  time  up  there,  won't  we?  " 

"  H-m !  "  repeated  Jimmie. 

*'  What's  the  matter  with  you,  son  ?  "  demanded  the 
old  man.  "  You  look  and  act  as  glum  as  bill  day. 
Have  things  been  going  wrong?  You  said  something 
about  not  being  popular  with  Joe." 

"  Oh,  that  ?  "  said  Jimmie,  eagerly  seizing  the  chance 


50  «  DAD  " 

of  escape.  "  That's  so.  It's  nothing  much.  I  was 
reading  in  the  Herald  this  morning  how  Professor 
Garfield  up  at  Hiram  College  is  raisihg  a  regiment  of 
college  fellers.  And  I  told  father  that  when  a  man  gets 
to  be  pretty  near  fifteen  it's  time  he  was  thinking  of 
joining  some  such  regiment  as  that.  He  talked  to  me 
more  than  ten  minutes  without  stopping.  And  then 
mother  took  a  turn  at  talking. 

"  They  didn't  leave  very  much  of  me.  They  said 
I'm  ungrateful  and  lazy  and  undisciplined  and  a  lot  of 
other  things.  But  I  wouldn't  have  minded  all  that  so 
much,  only — " 

"Only  what .^" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Only  they  said,"  supplemented  Dad,  "  that  it  was 
I  who  put  those  notions  into  your  head  by  my  gas-bag 
yarns  about  the  Mexican  war  and  the  way  I  feel  about 
what  a  man  owes  as  a  duty  to  his  country." 

"Did  father  tell  you  all  that?"  asked  the  boy 
quickly.     "  How  mean  of  him !  " 

"  I've  heard  it  before,"  evaded  Dad.  "  And  the 
worst  of  it  is,  it's  true." 

"  It  isn't !  "  vehemently  denied  Jimmie. 

"  Yes,  it  is,  son.  Not  that  my  ideas  about  patriotism 
aren't  all  right.  And  a  man  who  has  risked  his  life  is 
sure  entitled  to  tell  about  those  risks.  But  I  had  no 
right  to  fill  your  mind  with  ideas  of  war  when  you 
ought  to  be  thinking  about  ciphering  and  grammar 
and—" 

"What's   the   use   of   school,    anyway?"   broke   out 


THE  CHUMS  JJI 

Jimmie.  "  I'll  learn  more  in  one  month  at  the  war 
than  I'd  get  in  a  year  at  school." 

"  That's  where  you're  mistaken,  son.  We  both  want 
to  do  big  things.  But  the  manager  has  cast  us  for  lit- 
tle unimportant  roles.  And  if  we're  yellow  dogs  we'll 
sulk  over  those  roles  and  neglect  'em  and  do  our  feeble 
best  to  spoil  the  whole  show.  But  if  we're  the  kind  of 
chaps  I  think  we  are,  Jimmie,  you  and  I  will  just  whirl 
in  and  play  those  two  measly  little  roles  as  if  they  were 
leading  parts  and  as  if  the  whole  theater  were  applaud- 
ing us.     Sha'n't  we?  " 

The  boy  squeezed  his  hand  encouragingly,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"  You  see,"  went  on  Dad,  "  you've  got  a  heap  better 
chance  than  I  have.  You're  due  to  be  the  lead  some 
day.  And  the  better  you  play  the  little  no-account 
parts  that  are  handed  out  to  you  now,  the  sooner  you'll 
be  one.     But  I'm  getting  a  littler  role  each  year." 

"  It's  a  shame !  " 

"  Most  things  are.  But  white  men  grin  and  bear 
it.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  want  to  go  to  the  war. 
But  your  father  has  shown  me  where  my  duty  lies.  So 
while  he's  down  South  there,  putting  a  new  polish  on 
the  old  fighting  Brinton  name,  I'm  going  to  make  things 
easier  for  him  by  staying  here  and  taking  care  of  the 
folks  he  loves.  It  isn't  such  a  poor  role  if  I  can  play 
it  right. 

"  Look !  "  he  broke  off,  pointing  to  the  nearer  of  the 
two  drilling  companies  in  strong  disfavor.  "  See  how 
those   fellows   are  doing  the  *  double ! '     It's   a   crime. 


Sa  "  DAD  " 

That  step  will  shake  the  backbones  out  of  them 
and  knock  out  their  strength  and  ginger  in  half  a  mile. 
What  fool  of  a  drillmaster  is  that,  anyhow,  not  to  teach 
them  to  come  down  on  the  ball  of  the  foot  when  they 
double?  They're  as  flat-footed  as  a  batch  of  Digger 
Indians.  Why,  down  in  Mexico,  we  could  keep  at  the 
double  for  three  miles  without  getting  winded." 

"  And  didn't  the  greasers  who  were  chasing  you  get 
winded  either?  "  asked  Jimmie  in  ponderous  innocence. 

Dad  pulled  one  of  the  boy's  outstanding  ears  with 
finely  simulated  fury,  grinning  broadly  in  spite  of  him- 
self at  the  pert  question. 

"  No,  son,"  he  said.  "  It  was  the  other  way  around. 
The  best  army  will  have  to  run  sometimes.  But  down 
there,  under  Zach  Taylor,  it  just  happened  that  we  did 
all  our  running  forward.  Even  at  Buena  Vista,  where 
they  were  five  to  our  one. 

"  Lad,  I'll  never  forget  that  day  while  there's  a 
wheeze  of  breath  left  in  me.  We  woke  up  in  the  morn- 
ing after  a  big  rain.  We  were  all  sopping  and  chilled. 
And  we  found  the  greasers  had  made  a  forced  march, 
and  that  they'd  hemmed  us  in  the  big  hacienda  where 
we  were  camped.  They  had  us  right  in  the  hollow  of 
their  hands.  Five  to  one.  And  all  the  advantage  of 
position,  too,  do  you  see? 

"  Old  Uncle  Zach  was  sitting  on  a  soap-box  in  front 
of  his  tent,  trying  to  mow  a  week's  beard  with  a  dull 
razor.  He  was  barefoot,  and  in  a  pair  of  butternut 
pants  and  a  red  undershirt.  Up  rides  a  tailor's  dummy 
of  a  Mexican  adjutant,  under  a  flag  of  truce.     Looked 


THE  CHUMS  53 

as  if  he'd  been  bom  In  a  bandbox.  He  salutes, 
haughty  like,  and  asks: 

"  '  Do  I  address  El  Comandante  Zaccaria  Taylor?  ' 

"  '  Uh-huh ! '  grunts  Taylor,  scraping  away  hopeless 
like  at  his  stiff  gray  stubble. 

"  '  The  illustrious  Generalissimo  Santa  Anna  bids  me 
say  to  you,'  goes  on  the  tailor's  dummy,  '  that  you  are 
irretrievably  in  his  power.' 

"  *  All  right,'  says  Uncle  Zach,  tugging  at  his  razor. 
*  Let  him  come  along,  then,  and  get  me,  if  that's  the 
case.     I'm  right  here.' 

"  Half  an  hour  later  they  charged  us.  It  looked 
like  a  million-to-one  shot,  with  no  takers.  Along  to- 
ward afternoon,  when  we'd  been  fighting  till  we  were 
half-dead,  a  staff  officer  said  to  me : 

"  '  Taylor's  been  beaten  to  a  standstill  no  less  than 
three  times  to-day ! ' 

"  *  Yes,'  said  I,  grinning  back  at  him ;  '  but  he  doesn't 
know  it.' 

"  And  no  more  he  did.  By  night  the  Mexican  army 
was  smashed  like  a  basket  of  eggs  that  have  fallen  under 
a  road  roller. 

"  That's  the  whole  secret,  son  —  not  to  know  when 
you're  licked.  Maybe  a  man  can  put  up  as  pretty  a 
fight,  in  his  own  way,  right  here  at  home,  as  if  he  were 
riding  a  white  horse  and  waving  a  thirty-dollar  sword. 
I'm  going  to  try  to,  anyhow." 

"  If  it's  good  enough  for  you.  Dad,"  sighed  the  boy, 
"  I  guess  it's  good  enough  for  me.  We'll  make  a  try 
at  it,  anyhow."^ 


54  "  DAD  " 

"  That's  the  hero-talk,"  approved  his  grandfather. 
"  We'll  be  General  Jimmie  and  Colonel  Dad.  And  each 
evening  we'll  have  a  military  conference,  and  report  to 
each  other  the  day's  victories  and  reverses.  Let's  see 
if  we  can't  make  it  a  line  of  victories  as  unbroken  as 
Uncle  Zach's,  down  in  Mexico.  The  crowd  won't  be 
cheering  us ;  but  something  clear  down  inside  of  us  will. 
Shall  we  try.?" 

The  boy  drew  himself  up  at  attention. 

"  I  approve  your  plan,  colonel !  "  he  rasped  out,  mili- 
tary fashion.  "  It  is  worthy  of  the  man  who  helped 
Uncle  Zach  lick  the  greasers.  We're  going  to  win 
out  on  this  campaign.  Take  your  post,  sir,  and  report 
to  me  this  evening." 


CHAPTER  VII 


LEFT    BEHIND 


MAIN  STREET  was  alive  with  bunting  and  with 
multicolored  dresses.  Across  the  thoroughfare 
hung  banners.  Flags  were  draped  from  window  to 
window.  The  sidewalks  were  jammed  with  people 
whose  attire  was  gay  and  whose  faces  were  sad. 

From  the  square  at  last  came  the  fife-and-drum  notes 
of  "  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me."  The  Ideala  Comet 
Band  took  up  the  strains  —  half  a  beat  behind.  The 
waiting  sidewalk  crowds  massed  to  the  curb;  and 
Ideala's  twelve  policemen  were  sore  put  to  It  to  main- 
tain the  lines. 

Down  Main  Street,  from  the  square,  toward  the 
river  wharf  where  they  were  to  embark  for  Columbus, 
marched  Ideala's  two  recruit  companies.  The  uni- 
forms were  new  —  glaringly  new  —  and  as  111  fitting  as 
cheap  government  contract's  Ingenuity  could  make 
them. 

One  hundred  and  ninety-four  men,  their  muskets 
shouldered,  their  backs  galled  by  the  unwonted  chafing 
of  new  haversacks,  their  feet  already  flinching  from  the 
harsh  caress  of  loose  army  shoes,  strode  eastward  be- 
tween the  double  lines  of  spectators. 

55 


56  "  DAD  " 

The  men  were  still  painfully  conscious  of  themselves 
and  their  aspect.  The  art  of  keeping  step  was  still 
new  to  them. 

Wherefore  they  walked  —  not  marched  —  with  stiff 
bodies  and  compass  legs.  Such  of  them  as  might  sur- 
vive would  march  home  with  a  mile-eating  swing  of  leg 
and  body,  and  with  a  gait  that  involved  the  maximum 
of  speed  to  the  minimum  of  effort.  But  only  months 
of  campaigning  could  teach  them  that  motion. 

As  the  foremost  rank  turned  into  Main  Street  a 
thousand  waving  handkerchiefs  caught  the  sunlight. 
A  great,  ragged  cheer  went  up.  A  cheer  to  which  wet- 
eyed,  flushed  women  lent  a  shrill  treble  sub-tone. 

The  procession  had  scarce  covered  two  hundred  yards 
when  it  came  to  a  shuffling  and  unsteady  halt. 

Something  blocked  its  path.  Something  that  seemed 
to  have  the  right  of  way. 

Debouching  from  a  side  street,  and  crossing  Main 
Street  to  the  opposite  egress,  crept  a  hearse,  dourly 
resplendent  in  its  sable  panoply  of  plume  and  polished 
glass.  Behind  moved  a  line  of  musty  black  coaches 
filled  with  folk  in  mourning.  The  single  touch  of  color 
was  a  little  half-masted  American  flag  carried  by  a 
crape-hatted  foot  mourner  at  the  extreme  rear  of  the 
cortege. 

For  the  man  who  went  to-day  to  his  burial  was  Cap- 
tain Otis,  commander  of  the  first  militia  company  that 
Ideala  had  sent  forth.  He  had  been  invalided  home,  a 
bullet  in  his  lungs,  directly  after  the  battle  of  Bull  Run. 
And,  two  days  ago,  he  had  died. 


LEFT  BEHIND  57. 

The  recruits,  as,  halted,  they  watched  the  gruesome 
counter-parade  cross  their  line  of  march,  lost  some  of 
the  patriotically  eager  look  their  faces  had  worn. 
From  the  crowd  on  the  sidewalks  went  up  something 
very  like  a  groan.  Then  came  a  ruffle  of  half-stifled 
sobs. 

The  funeral  had  rubbed  a  black  smear  across  the  oc- 
casion's glitter.  People  all  at  once  began  to  realize 
what  war  meant,  and  just  what  their  husbands  and 
fathers  and  sons  were  facing. 

An  old  woman  on  the  curb's  edge  reached  forth  a 
timid  hand  and  touched  the  shoulder  of  a  gray-bearded 
recruit  who  had  halted  near  her.  He  turned,  momen- 
tarily forgetting  newly  acquired  discipline;  and  they 
looked  into  each  other's  time-scarred  faces.  Then  the 
man  shifted  slightly  from  his  place  in  the  ranks  and,  as 
she  leaned  forward,  kissed  her. 

A  younger  woman  —  brave  in  yellow  organdy  with 
red  ribbons  —  at  sight  of  the  kiss  broke  into  unre- 
strained weeping  and  threw  her  arms  about  the  neck 
of  a  man  in  the  next  rank  —  the  husband  she  had  mar- 
ried but  three  months  earlier  and  who  was  never  to  see 
their  child. 

In  the  instant  a  score  of  women  had  invaded  the 
carefully  aligned  ranks;  and  the  sound  of  strangled 
weeping  rose  clamorously  to  high  heaven. 

"  Company,  attention!  "  bellowed  a  right-amateurish 
militia  captain.  *^  Carry  arms!  Present  arms!  Left 
shoulder  —  arms!     Forrerd  —  march!  " 

The   funeral  had  passed.     Once  more  the  fife-and- 


68  "  DAD '' 

drum  corps  and  the  Ideala  Comet  Band  —  still  a  half- 
beat  at  variance  —  struck  up  "  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind 
Me."  ^ 

The  invading  women  scuttled  back  to  the  sidewalk, 
crying  and  protesting.  The  two  companies  caught 
step  and  moved  forward  with  their  former  stiff  and  un- 
accustomed stride. 

And  so  down  the  street  they  passed,  and  to  the  wharf, 
where  awaited  the  river  transport  that  was  to  bear 
them  to  the  recruiting  camp  at  Columbus. 

The  occasion  was  over.  Some  of  the  crowd  followed 
the  soldiers  to  the  river.  The  rest  broke  into  oddly 
silent  and  disorganized  groups  and  melted  away. 

Dad,  tightening  his  grip  on  Jimmie's  hand,  turned 
out  of  Main  Street  and  set  his  face  toward  the  big 
house  on  the  hill  —  his  assigned  post  of  war  duty. 

Mrs.  Joseph  Brinton  had  not  been  in  the  throng  on 
the  sidewalks.  She  did  not  like  crowds.  They  made 
her  head  ache.  Nor  did  she  believe  in  public  exhibition 
of  one's  feelings.  So  her  good-by  to  her  professionally 
patriotic  husband  had  occurred  behind  closed  doors  in 
the  big  house,  an  hour  earlier. 

Dad  and  Jimmie  had  taken  up  a  strategic  position 
on  the  most  promising  street  corner,  however,  and  had 
seen  everything.  The  old  man  was  curiously  silent  as 
they  turned  away.  But  the  boy  was  bubbling  over 
with  words  and  excitement. 

"  Gee,  but  it  was  great.  Dad ! "  he  exploded. 
"  Finer'n  any  circus  parade  that  ever  struck  this  town. 


LEFT  BEHIND  59 

Only,  did  you  hear  how  rottenly  Hank  Ebbets  played 
the  snare-drum?  If  I  couldn't  hammer  a  drum  better'n 
he  does  I'd  learn  to  knit  instead.  I  can  play  the  drum 
all  around  any  feller  in  that  corps.  And  I  never  had 
a  lesson,  either.  I  just  picked  it  up.  The  leader  says 
I'm  a  ^  natural-born  drummer.'  I  wish  I  could  be 
thumping  a  drum  down  South  there,  this  minute,  in  a 
battle." 

"  Insubordination,  general !  "  reproved  Dad,  his  voice 
a  trifle  husky.  "  Against  our  agreement.  Seventeen 
more  forbidden  wishes  like  that  and  you'll  have  to  order 
yourself  court-martialed." 

"  I  forgot.  I'm  sorry.  Say,  father  looked  el'gant 
in  his  uniform,  didn't  he?  Had  it  made  to  order.  I 
heard  a  man  behind  us  say  a  funny  thing  when  father 
marched  past.  Someone  said :  *  Joseph  Brinton  is 
more  patriotic  than  I  thought.'  And  this  other  feller 
says :  *  Yes.  Patriotic  for  revenue  only.'  What 
does  *  patriotic  for  revenue  only  '  mean.  Dad?  " 

"  It  means  too  much  nowadays,  son.  But  it  doesn't 
mean  your  father.  You  can  bet  on  that.  He's  a  true 
fighting  Brinton.  Right  down  to  the  ground.  I  used 
to  be  afraid  he  wasn't.  But  that  just  shows  how  wrong 
a  suspicious  old  fool  can  be." 

"  Wasn't  it  a  shame  the  way  that  horrible  funeral 
tried  to  spoil  the  procession?"  exclaimed  Jimmie,  off 
on  a  new  tack.  "  What  did  it  have  to  trapes  across 
the  route  for,  just  when  we  were  having  such  a  good 
time  cheering?  " 


60  "  DAD  " 

"  When  you  grow  up,"  said  Dad,  "  you'll  find  that's 
a  way  funerals  have  —  and,  oftenest,  funerals  that  go 
by  other  names." 

They  had  gained  the  hill's  summit,  and  had  turned 
in  at  the  gate  of  a  house  whose  architecture  in  garish 
ugliness  outdid  that  of  nearly  all  its  pretentious  neigh- 
bors. Jimmie  opened  the  front  door  without  ceremony 
and  stood  aside  to  let  Dad  pass  in. 

*'  Your  headquarters,  colonel ! "  he  announced 
proudly.  "  You  are  hereby  placed  in  full  conmiand  of 
the  Brinton  corps.     Take  your  post." 

Dad  stepped  in  and  stood  for  an  instant  within  the 
broad  hall. 

The  big  and  overfumished  rooms  filled  him,  as  al- 
ways, with  a  sort  of  awe.  He  had  long  since  offered 
Joseph  the  solid,  early  Victorian  and  Georgian  furni- 
ture his  own  mother  had  so  prized.  But  Marcia,  who 
had  once  lived  in  the  metropolis  of  Cincinnati  and  was 
an  authority  on  all  matters  of  taste,  had  rejected  the 
offer. 

Mahogany,  she  declared,  was  hideously  old  fash- 
ioned, and  rosewood  was  worse.  Also,  Sheraton  and 
Hepplewhite  styles  had  forever  gone  out ;  and  no  up-to- 
date  home  could  afford  to  harbor  their  makers'  works. 

So  the  antique  lumber  had  gone  in  ignominy  to  stor- 
age, and  the  big  house  was  outfitted  with  the  most  ul- 
tramodern gems  of  furniture  from  Cincinnati,  Chicago, 
and  even  far-off  New  York. 

Dad  was  to-day  sensible,  as  never  before,  of  the 
grandeur  of  his  surroundings.     The  marble-topped  cen* 


LEFT  BEHIND  61 

ter  tables,  the  plush  chairs  and  lambrequins,  the  art 
plaques  and  Rogers  groups,  all  struck  him  afresh  with 
their  splendor. 

He  felt  a  vague  thrill  of  pride  that  he  was  chosen  as 
master  pro  tern,  of  it  all.  He  hoped  that  Stage  and  the 
rest  of  the  Eagle's  habitues  would  appreciate  how  great 
a  dignity  was  his.  He  had  taken  good  care  that  all  of 
them  should  know  of  his  new  trusteeship. 

He  must  be  seen  less  in  their  company,  he  reflected. 
The  master  of  the  big  house  on  the  hill  did  not  belong 
in  a  barroom.  His  visits  to  the  Eagle  must  be  fewer 
and  less  protracted. 

He  must  do  nothing  to  shake  the  sudden  respect  and 
desire  for  his  presence  wherewith  his  daughter-in-law 
had  so  recently  become  imbued. 

As  Dad  hesitated  in  the  hallway,  Jimmie  behind  him, 
just  then  from  one  of  the  rear  rooms  Marcia  Brinton 
appeared. 

Dad,  as  he  stepped  toward  her,  tried  to  inject  some- 
thing of  chivalric  protection  and  fatherliness  into  the 
greeting  he  tendered  this  daughter-in-law  of  whom  he 
had  always  been  more  than  a  little  afraid. 

"  I  have  not  had  a  chance,''  he  began  rather  pom- 
pously, "  to  tell  you  in  person  how  I  appreciate  the 
honor  you  have  done  me  in  choosing  me  to  represent 
your  home  and  to  look  after  its  interests  and  yours  in 
Joe's  absence.  Though  I  asked  Joe  to  say  so  for  me. 
I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  take  his  place  worthily  as  head 
of  the  house  and  to  serve  you  in  every  way  in  my 
power." 


62  "  DAD '' 

Mrs,  Brinton  made  no  Immediate  answer,  but  looked 
at  the  elderly  and  not  over-neat  figure  before  her. 

Her  lips  were  thin.  So  was  her  nose.  Her  alert 
eyes  showed  no  traces  of  tears. 

Presently  she  spoke. 

"You  seem  to  have  a  false  idea  of  your  position 
here,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  gloss  Joseph  may 
have  put  on  my  request  that  you  stay  in  this  house 
while  he  is  away.  But  I  think  it  is  always  better  to  be 
honest  and  to  have  a  mutual  understanding  in  ad- 
vance." 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  faltered  Dad.     "  I  — " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings,"  she  continued. 
**  But,  as  I  said,  it  is  best  to  be  honest  and  above-board. 
I  told  Joseph  you  had  better  stay  here,  so  that  there 
would  be  fewer  chances  of  your  —  of  your  doing  what 
might  pass  discredit  on  us  while  he  is  away.  And  I 
told  him  there  were  many  light  bits  of  work  by  which 
you  could  make  yourself  useful  to  me  and  avoid  the 
idleness  that  might  send  you  into  bad  companionship. 
I  hope  you  will  not  abuse  my  trust ;  or  add  to  my  an- 
noyances in  any  way." 

"  I  -^  I  shall  try  not  to,"  said  Dad  dazedly. 

"  And  now,"  added  Marcia  briskly,  "  I'll  have  to  ask 
you  to  get  your  dinner  down-town  to-day.  My  brother 
and  his  wife  are  dining  with  me." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  assented  the  old  man. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COUNCIL   OF    WAR         » 

DAD  lay  on  a  bed  a  little  too  short  for  him  and 
looked  up  wide-eyed  at  the  rafters  above  his  head. 

The  room  to  which  Marcia  had  assigned  him  was 
under  the  eaves  and  had  not  yet  been  ceiled.  Through 
its  one  window  poured  in  a  flood  of  summer  moonlight. 

To  the  old  campaigner  the  bare  quarters  were  not 
physically  uncomfortable.  He  had  slept  —  and  slept 
snug  —  in  worse  beds,  and  indeed  in  no  bed  at  all. 

But  his  thoughts  were  stretching  him  on  a  couch  of 
fire. 

Now  that  the  miserable  day  was  over,  he  had 
time  to  think,  time  to  realize.  And  his  reflections 
turned  him  heart-sick.  At  times  he  would  sink  into  an 
apathy  of  misery.  Again  a  wave  of  angry  shame  would 
scourge  him. 

This  was  his  post  of  responsibility,  of  protectorship 
—  to  be  assigned  to  the  office  of  unpaid  servant  and 
unwelcome  hanger-on  in  the  house  of  his  own  son !  To 
endure  weeks,  perhaps  months  of  snubs,  of  petty  in- 
sults, of  orders  worse  than  insults.  To  have  his  cronies 
of  the  Eagle  see  him  pottering  around  town  on  house- 
hold errands  such  as  in  those  days  were  usually  per- 
formed in  Ideala  by  negro  servants. 

63 


64  "  DAD  " 

He  could  hear  in  anticipation  old  Stage's  disgusting 
toothful  chuckle. 

To  drink  he  had  turned  for  refuge,  in  every  crisis 
or  bitterness,  for  the  past  fourteen  years.  And  to 
drink  and  its  nepenthe  his  mind  now  rushed.  He  was 
prompted  to  get  up  and  dress  and  go  to  the  Eagle. 
The  barroom  there  would  not  be  closed  for  another 
half-hour. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Marcia,  following  her 
nightly  custom,  had  locked  the  lower  doors  and  had 
put  their  keys  into  her  housewife-bag.  The  lower  win- 
dows, too,  were  lock-shuttered. 

There  was,  clearly,  no  egress  by  the  ordinary  route. 

As  difficulties  arose,  his  thirst  increased  with  them, 
and  grew  to  a  gnawing,  sentient  thing.  And  with  added 
desire  came  calculation. 

Before  going  to  bed  he  had  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  moonlit  town  below.  And  subconsciously  he 
had  noted  the  stout  iron  waterpipe  —  nearly  a  foot 
wide,  including  its  supports  —  that  ran  transversely 
down  the  eaves,  crossing  just  under  the  window  and  ex- 
tending at  the  same  angle  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
ground,  before  turning  and  going  directly  downward. 

An  agile  and  cool-headed  man  might  readily  descend 
by  means  of  this  pipe.  Whether  or  not  he  could  re- 
turn by  the  same  route  was  quite  another  problem  and 
one  that  the  man's  rapidly  wakening  drink-lust  did  not 
trouble  to  take  into  account. 

At  worst  he  would  be  but  anticipating  a  disgrace 
that  was  morally  certain  to  come,  soon  or  late. 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  65 

Dad  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  As  he  did  so  the 
door  of  his  room  opened  and  closed  in  utter  noiseless- 
ness,  and  a  square-shouldered  little  figure  clad  in  white 
stood  beside  his  bed. 

^'  I  knew  I'd  find  you  awake,"  whispered  Jimmie, 
perching  on  the  bed's  edge.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  Dad. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  before.  But  mother  kept  me  in 
the  room  all  the  time  the  folks  were  here.  It's  awful 
hard  lines." 

"  It  can't  be  helped,"  said  Dad,  with  an  effort  at 
philosophy. 

"  I  got  a  hint  of  how  it  was  going  to  be,"  said  the 
boy.  "  I  heard  mother  and  father  talking.  But  I 
didn't  have  the  sand  to  tell  you  when  you  were  so  tickled 
at  being  asked  here.  And,  anyway,  I  didn't  know  how 
bad  it  would  turn  out.     Mother  is  — " 

"  Mother  is  mother,  Jim.  Let's  try  to  remember 
that.  She's  a  good  woman.  She  means  it  all  for  the 
best." 

"  You  told  me  once  that  Uncle  Zach  Taylor  said  the 
hot  place  was  paved  with  the  failures  of  folks  who 
*  meant  it  all  for  the  best,'  Dad." 

**  He  never  meant  people  like  your  mother,  son.  She 
does  what  she  thinks  is  right.  Remember  we're  sol- 
diers, you  and  I.  And  when  soldiers  are  expecting  a 
square  meal  and  the  commissary  train  gets  lost  they 
don't  whine.  They  just  buckle  their  belts  tighter 
and  keep  on  the  best  they  can.  That's  the  way  it's 
got  to  be  with  me  for  a  while.  It  can't  be  helped, 
and—" 


66  ^'^DAD'' 

"  It  can  be  helped,  Dad.  That's  why  I  sneaked  in 
here  to-night.  We  got  to  hold  a  council  of  war,  you 
and  I,     And  I  guess  I'm  the  one  with  the  only  idea." 

"Fire  away,  general,  but  make  it  brief.  It's  time 
little  boys  —  I  mean  little  generals  —  wiere  asleep." 

"  No,"  contradicted  Jimmie.  "  It's;  time  they  woke 
up,  if  they're  going  to  save  Colonel  Brinton.  Listen, 
Dad :  how  far  did  you  tell  me  you  tramped  in  one  day 
when  you  went  on  that  hunting  trip  last  April? 
Twenty- two  miles,  wasn't  it.?  '* 

"  Yes,  about  twenty-two.     Why?  '* 

"  Tuckered  out  after  it?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  You  see,  I'm  used  to  exercise.  And 
the  work  I  do  in  my  garden  keeps  me  in  pretty  good 
shape.     But  why — " 

"  Dad,  you  can't  stay  here.'* 

"What?     Has  your  mother — " 

"  She  hasn't  said  a  thing.  I  guess  there's  nothing 
left  for  her  to  say.  She's  said  about  everything  al- 
ready. But  you  can't.  It  will  be  like  being  in  jail. 
You  saw  how  it  was  to-day.  Well,  it'll  be  like  that  to- 
morrow and  the  next  day  and  the  next  day  after  that 
and  all  the  days.     And  it'll  keep  getting  worse." 

The  old  man  shuddered  involuntarily  at  the  pros- 
pect. 

Jimmie  pressed  his  advantage. 

"  There's  just  one  thing  you  got  to  do,  colonel,"  he 
declared,  "  you  got  to  break  prison." 

«  To  — -" 

"Yep.     To  —  to  absquatulate.     To  run  away." 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  67 

"  JImmIe!     I—" 

"  Wait  a  second.  I'm  the  general  and  this  is  a 
council  of  war.  You  got  to  run  away.  I've  planned  it 
all  out.  And  I've  planned  where  you've  got  to  run 
away  to." 

"  Where,  general?  "  asked  Dad  in  mild  amusement  as 
the  boy  paused  for  dramatic  effect.  "  To  sea,  or  the 
North  Pole,  or  — " 

"To  the  front!" 

"  Don't,  son ! "  expostulated  Dad  in  sharp  pain. 
"  Don't  talk  that  way." 

"  Why  not?  You  said  you'd  stay  here  because  you 
thought  you  could  be  of  use  to  mother.  Well,  you  see 
what  kind  of  use  you  are  to  her  and  how  much  she'd 
miss  you  if  you  were  gone.  Say,  Dad  —  colonel  — 
honest,  I  hate  like  poison  to  hurt  your  feelings  T)y  talk- 
ing like  that,  but  it's  true.  So  why  don't  you  hike  out 
for  the  front?  You're  crazy  to  go  to  the  war.  Just  as  I 
am.  Only,  you  can  do  it  and  I  can't.  No  one's  got 
the  right  to  stop  you  or  pack  you  back  to  school." 

Dad  fell  back  on  the  hard  pillow,  again  staring 
wide-eyed  up  at  the  bare  rafters.  The  drink-longing 
had  left  him,  driven  out  by  a  fifty-fold  stronger  yearn- 
ing. 

"  To  go  to  the  front !  '*  he  muttered. 

"  That's  it,"  encouraged  Jimmie.  "  That's  the  idea, 
Dad.     Why  don't  you?" 

Dad  sighed,  the  bright  vision  fading. 

"  I  can't,  boy,"  he  said  simply. 

"  Because  — "  began  Jimmie  with  a  queer  shyness, 


68  "  DAD  " 

"because  you  think  maybe  they  wouldn't  take  you 
back?" 

"  You've  guessed  it,  son.'* 

Jimmie  reached  forward  and  patted  the  man's  cheek 
in  rough  sympathy. 

"  I  know,"  he  answered.  "  It's  a  rotten  shame.  But 
I've  thought  all  that  out,  too.  I  got  the  idea  to- 
night when  Uncle  Cephus  was  telling  how  a  boy  up  at 
Cleveland  ran  away  to  the  war  —  under  another 
name." 

"  Another  name  ?  "  repeated  Dad,  a  confused  hope 
jumping  into  life  within  him. 

"  That's  it.  Now  the  gov*ment  was  silly  enough 
not  to  want  Lieutenant-Colonel  Brinton  back  in  the 
army.  Even  as  a  private,  most  likely.  But  how  is 
the  gov'ment  going  to  know  you're  Lieutenant-Colonel 
James  Brinton  unless  you  tell  'em  so?  Why,  there  ain't 
a  chance  in  a  billion  you'll  run  across  anyone  you  used 
to  know.  And  if  you  did  —  well,  a  man  changes  a 
whole  lot  in  fourteen  years.     I  know  /  have." 

The  veteran's  mind  blazed  with  the  new  thought  — 
a  plan  so  simple,  so  safe,  so  feasible  that  he  marveled 
at  his  own  drink-dulled  brain  for  not  sooner  seizing 
upon  it. 

Details  were  still  in  a  jumble;  but  the  basic  thought 
possessed  him  to  the  very  soul. 

"  I  read  in  the  Herald,'^  went  on  Jimmie,  his  voice 
cracking  with  excitement,  "  that  there's-  a  new  recruit- 
ing camp  at  Cincinnati.  Go  there.  It's  only  forty 
miles.     You  can  make  it  in  two  days  easy.     And  there 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  69 

you  won't  run  into  any  of  the  home  folks.  They're  all 
enlisting  at  Columbus." 

Dad  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed,  his  every  nerve 
tense.  Twenty  years  had  tumbled  from  his  suddenly 
straightened  shoulders. 

"  Jimmie !  "  he  gasped.  "  Jimmie !  Oh,  son,  you're 
a  wonder ! " 

"  You  —  you'll  do  it,  Dad  ?  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Do  it?  "  echoed  Brinton.     *'  Yes!  " 

The  boy  gave  his  grandfather  a  rapturous  hug  and 
squealed  aloud  in  glee. 

"  Mother  won't  be  very  nice  about  it,"  he  said  pres- 
ently, "  but  — " 

"  No,"  agreed  Dad,  a  shade  of  his  elation  ebbing. 
"  She  won't.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  That'll  be  the 
only  hard  part  of  it  all.  Somehow,  son,  I'm  such  a 
rank  old  coward  I'd  rather  face  a  dozen  crazy  men 
armed  with  knives  than  one  terribly  good  woman  armed 
with  a  righteous  temper.  But  I'll  have  to  go  through 
with  it  some  way.  I'U  speak  to  her  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning." 

"  You  don't  have  to." 

"But  how  —  " 

"  Remember  the  night  I  went  cat-fishing  with  you  ? 
Well,  how  do  you  s'pose  I  got  out  of  the  house  .^^  By 
that  window  just  behind  you.  I  shinned  down  the 
water-pipe.  It's  dead  easy.  /  did  it.  I  stump  you 
to.  Right  this  very  night.  It  isn't  twelve  o'clock  yet. 
You  could  be  ten  miles  out  of  town  before  to-morrow 
morning  at  sunrise.^' 


70  "  DAD '' 

Dad  was  on  his  feet,  drawing  on  his  clothes  with  the 
careful  haste  of  a  veteran. 

"  I'll  do  it !  "  he  said,  feeling  delightfully  like  a  run- 
away schoolboy.  "  I'll  do  it,  Jimmie.  Oh,  lad,  you're 
such  a  little  brick !  " 

"  Don't  go  off  half-cocked,"  adjured  Jimmie. 
"  There's  something  else  you've  got  to  think  of.  What 
name  are  you  going  to  have  them  call  you  ?  " 

"  Any  name  will  do,"  said  Brinton  impatiently  as  he 
bent  to  lace  his  shoes.  "  John  Smith  is  as  good  as  an- 
other, I  suppose." 

"  Well,  you  s'pose  wrong,"  chided  Jimmie.  "  S'pose 
an  off'cer  or  one  of  the  men  says :  *  Hey,  there,  Smith ! ' 
Half  the  time  you  won't  remember  you're  John  Smith 
at  all,  and  you  won't  know  enough  to  answer.  And  then 
everybody'U  know  it  isn't  your  own  name." 

"  That's  so!  "  laughed  Brinton.  "  I'll  have  to  teach 
myself  my  new  name  as  I  go  along.  That'll  be  the  way 
to  get  around  th^t!  " 

"  It  takes  an  awful  long  time  to  get  used  to  a  name," 
philosophized  Jimmie.  "  Even  now,  when  mother  calls 
me  *  James  '  I  don't  always  catch  on,  because  I'm  so 
much  useder  to  being  Jimmie. 

"  But  I've  thought  out  that,  too.  You're  name  is 
Dadd.  D-A-D-D.  You  pronounce  it  just  the  same 
as  D-A-D.  James  Dadd.  It  ain't  as  swell  a  name  as 
Claude  Reginald  de  Montmorency.     But  it's  safer. 

"  You  see,"  he  explained,  "  when  anyone  calls  you 
*  James,'  then,  or  '  Dadd,'  why,  you'll  be  so  used  to 
both  names  that  you'll  answer  to  either  of  'em  right 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  71 

straight  off  without  having  to  stop  to  think  about 
it  at  all.  That's  the  idea.  Do  you  see  what  I 
mean?  " 

"  Jimmie,"  said  Dad,  with  heartfelt  conviction,  "  if 
you  had  one  speck  more  sense  your  brain  would  ex- 
plode !  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you.  You're  not  a  won- 
der. You're  two  wonders  —  even  three,  James  Dadd 
it  shall  be." 

Fully  dressed  now,  he  paused,  and,  dropping  his 
hands  on  his  grandson's  shoulders,  looked  down  at  the 
ugly,  earnest  little  face  upturned  to  his  own  In  the 
white  moonshine  that  filtered  into  the  room. 

"  My  boy,"  he  said  very  tenderly,  very  earnestly, 
"  the  Book  of  Books  says  something  about  *  out  of  the 
mouths  of  babes.'  And,  as  usual,  the  Book  is  right. 
For  fourteen  years  I've  been  wandering  off  the  path 
and  into  dirtier  sloughs  than  you'd  understand  about 
if  I  were  to  tell  you.  To-night  you've  put  my  feet  on 
the  firm,  hard  road  again.  And,  please  God,  they've 
strayed  from  It  for  the  last  time. 

"  I'm  no  hand  at  sermonizing,  and  this  Is  no  time  to 
preach.  But  I'm  going  to  make  up  for  what  I've  lost. 
I'm  going  to  make  you  proud  of  me.  I'm  going  to 
serve  this  dear  country  of  ours  as  only  a  man  who  loves 
her  as  I  do  can  serve  her.  I'm  going  to  break  with  the 
worthless  sot  I've  been  for  fourteen  years.  And  I'm 
going  to  win  back  so  help  met  I'm  going  to  be  a 
man  —  a  man!  " 

He  paused,  his  clasp  tightening  on  his  little  grand- 
son's shoulders,  the  expression  In  his  eyes  as  he  looked 


72  "  DAD  " 

down  into  the  still  rigidly  upturned  face  before  him 
softening  to  warmer  tenderness. 

"  And,  son,  it's  you  who  have  shown  me  the  way. 
Just  remember  that  always.  And  —  if  it  turns  out 
that  I  shouldn't  happen  to  come  back,  just  remember 
it's  the  cleanest,  whitest  way  a  man  could  wish  to  die. 
And  remember,  then,  that  it'll  some  day  be  your  turn 
to  take  the  place  that's  come  down  to  you  through  the 
generations  —  to  be  a  Fighting  Brinton." 

His  voice  choked.  Stooping  down,  he  kissed  the 
boy;  then,  lightly  as  a  man  of  twenty,  he  swung  over 
the  sill  and  let  himself  down  to  the  pipe  below. 

Dad  halted  in  his  long,  nervous  stride;  turned  and 
looked  back. 

He  had  reached  the  highest  ground  in  the  lowland 
region;  the  top  of  a  low,  rolling  hillock.  Five  miles 
away,  in  the  valley,  lay  Ideala,  the  town  he  had  quitted 
less  than  an  hour  and  a  half  earlier. 

Under  the  flood  of  summer  moonlight  it  lay,  it's  ugly 
lines  almost  beautiful  in  the  soft  radiance. 

Dad  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  the  town  that  had 
been  his  home  since  babyhood;  the  town  whose  fore- 
most merchant  and  leading  citizen  he  had  once  been ;  the 
town  that  had  laughingly  witnessed  his  disgrace  and 
had  for  fourteen  miserable  years  been  the  scene  of  his 
daily  degradation. 

He  looked  back  at  the  place  with  much  the  feeling 
wherewith  a  released  soul  might  view  the  twisted  and 
crippled  body  that  had  so  long  been  its  prison-house. 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  73 

The  disgrace,  the  sneers,  the  shame,  dulled  by  liquor 
—  all  were  things  of  the  past.  Ahead  —  somewhere  to 
the  southward  —  lay  a  new  world,  a  new  career,  a  new 
chance  under  a  new  name.  The  shackles  had  been 
struck  away.     The  convict  was  free. 

Dad's  keen  eyes  traced  the  bulk  of  a  big  house  on  a 
rise  of  ground  at  the  town's  northern  end.  In  a  room 
of  that  house  a  boy  was  lying  awake,  praying  for  the 
good  fortune  of  his  grandfather.  A  boy  —  the  only 
being  on  earth  who  loved  James  Brinton  and  whom 
James  Brinton  loved. 

Unwitting  his  own  quick  impulse,  the  man  fell 
heavily  to  his  knees,  gripped  his  hands  tight  across  his 
chest,  and  stared  up  into  the  moon-illumined  sky. 

"  God  bless  him  and  keep  him !  "  he  muttered  inco- 
herently. 

"  God  bless  my  little  boy  and  make  me  halfway  the 
man  he  thinks  I  am !  " 

A  spasm  as  of  physical  pain  seized  and  shook  the 
kneeling  man.     The  very  depths  were  stirred. 

Something  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger 
possessed  and  mastered  him.  His  eyes  still  upraised, 
the  white  moon  glare  beating  upon  his  face,  he  spoke 
aloud  —  spoke  as  though  addressing  a  visible  friend, 
not  an  unseen  God. 

"  You've  lifted  me  out  of  the  mire,"  he  breathed. 
*'  You  have  shown  me  the  light  after  all  these  black 
years.  You  have  given  me  the  chance  to  strike  for  this 
country  that  You  made  free  and  great.  Make  my 
deeds  thank  You  as  my  words  can't ! " 


74  "  DAD  " 

The  voice  ceased;  then  continued  once  more,  firm  yet 
vibrant  with  mighty  emotion: 

"  You  have  made  good  Your  promise  that  *  a  little 
child  shall  lead  them.'  A  child  has  been  Your  instru- 
ment in  starting  me  in  the  right  direction.  Keep  me  on 
that  road,  nor  let  my  grosser  self  triumph  over  my 
manhood  again.  I  offer  my  life  to  You  —  it  is  all  I 
have  to  offer  in  atonement.  Make  it  clean  and  strong 
as  once  it  was.  Give  me  the  chance  to  lay  It  on  Your 
altar  as  a  sacrifice  to  liberty  and  patriotism.  Oh,  teach 
me  to  deserve  the  chance  that  has  come  to  me  this 
night ! " 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  full  of  a  strange,  exalted  calm. 
He  felt  that  every  word  of  his  heart-wrung  prayer  had 
reached  beyond  the  frontier  of  the  star  country  over- 
head and  to  the  very  throne  of  the  Hearer  and  An- 
swerer. 

Somewhere  on  that  dusty,  moonlit  road  Dad  Brinton, 
town  drunkard,  was  forever  left  behind. 

And  hastening  blithely  to  his  country's  service 
marched  James  Dadd,  army  recruit! 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    LESSON    IN    MANNERS 

TEN  days  later  an  interminably  long  transport- 
train  puffed  out  of  the  Cincinnati  station.  Its 
three  engines  were  gay  in  polished  brass  and  red  smoke- 
stacks. All  three  were  decked  with  sooty  American 
flags. 

At  the  station  a  bras®  band  was  braying  and  a 
brazen-lunged  crowd  was  still  cheering,  for  this  was 
the  first  of  the  several  troop-trains,  bearing  drafts  of 
recruits  from  Cincinnati  to  the  training-camps  outside 
of  Washington, 

The  day  was  stiflingly  hot.  The  wooden  cars  were 
packed  to  overflowing.  When  the  windows  were  closed 
the  air  promptly  became  unbreathable.  When  they 
were  open  a  whirlwind  of  soft-coal  embers  and  soot 
from  the  gaudy  locomotive  gushed  in. 

The  recruits,  however,  were  as  jubilant  as  though 
they  were  starting  on  a  picnic. 

Singly  there  were  choking  memories  of  dear  ones  left 
behind,  and  there  was  perhaps  dread  of  what  might  lie 
before.  But  collectively  all  was  noisy,  even  boisterous, 
gayety. 

One  car,  whose  occupants  were  largely  recruited  from 
Cincinnati  water-front  and  similar  purlieus,  was  deaf- 

7^ 


76  "  DAD  " 

eningly  rackety.  Songs,  cheers,  catcalls,  horseplay, 
and  the  more  or  less  surreptitious  circulation  of  flat, 
brown  flasks  were  the  chief  components  of  the  fun. 

The  officers  in  charge,  acting  on  a  hint  from  head- 
quarters not  to  press  too  heavily  the  lever  of  discipline 
until  the  recruits  should  reach  the  training-camps,  did 
little  to  suppress  the  jolly  riot  in  this  particular  car. 

Yet  as  the  racket  swelled  they  exchanged  many  un- 
easy looks. 

They  themselves  were  for  the  most  part  civilians,  still 
new  to  martial  ways  and  to  the  handling  of  men. 
Wherefore,  they  had  gathered  In  the  officers'  compart- 
ment at  the  forward  end  of  the  troop-car,  where  there 
was  at  least  breathing  room,  and  left  the  men  pretty 
much  to  themselves. 

A  new-made  militia  major  went  through  the  car, 
glaring  sternly  from  side  to  side,  at  a  loss  for  the  exact 
words  wherewith  to  restore  quiet.  As  he  passed  there 
was  but  slight  lessening  of  the  din,  and  as  he  entered 
the  officers'  compartment  the  horseplay  broke  out 
afresh. 

A  drillmaster,  ranking  as  first  lieutenant  and  vet- 
eran of  the  Mexican  War,  looked  up  as  the  major  en- 
tered. 

"  A  few  of  those  fellows  need  a  taste  of  the  cells  or 
the  log  and  chain,"  hazarded  the  lieutenant.  "  And 
they'll  get  plenty  of  both  if  they  keep  up  this  sort  of 
thing  after  we  reach  the  camps.  It  seems  a  pity  we 
were  ordered  to  go  easy  with  them  on  the  trips." 

"  It's  mostly  that  big  bargemaster  who  enlisted  last 


A  LESSON  IN  MANNERS  77 

week,"  said  the  major.  "You  remember?  The  fel- 
low you  told  me  about  —  the  one  who  smuggled  a  flask 
of  whisky  onto  the  parade-grounds  and  tried  to  drink 
during  drill?  He's  cast  himself  for  the  role  of  village 
cut-up.  He  starts  the  noise  every  time.  His  latest 
feat  is  to  pelt  one  of  the  older  men  with  peanut-shells. 
He  picked  out  the  meekest-looking,  oldest  man  in  sight, 
I  suppose,  to  make  the  sport  safer.  Every  shot  brings 
a  laugh  and  every  hit  a  chorus  of  yells." 

The  lieutenant  glanced  out  of  the  compartment  and 
down  the  length  of  the  thronged  car. 

"  It's  a  dirty  shame,"  he  reported  as  he  drew  back 
from  investigating.  "  He's  chosen  as  his  butt  one  of 
the  finest  old  fellows  in  all  the  draft  of  recruits.  A 
man  I've  had  my  eye  on  since  the  day  he  joined.  A 
man  with  a  mystery  behind  him,  I  should  say." 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  the  ma j  or,  waking  to  mild  interest 
at  the  magic  w;ord  "  mystery."  "  The  old  codger  the 
bargee  is  pelting?  Seems  a  harmless,  unromantic  sort 
of  fellow." 

"  He  joined  a  little  over  a  week  ago,"  replied  the 
lieutenant.  "  I  was  cranky  that  day,  and  I  hated  to 
see  a  gray-haired  man  among  the  rookies  1  was  drilling, 
for  the  old  ones  are  awkwardest  and  take  twice  as  long 
to  learn  the  simplest  tactics  as  the  young  chaps.  But 
he'd  passed  the  physical  exam,  and  had  been  sworn  in, 
so  I  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it.  But,  as  it  turned  out, 
I  didn't  have  to." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  put  him  in  an  ^  awkward  squad '  and  started  in 


78  "  DAD '' 

to  teach  the  squad  how  to  stand  and  how  to  step  out. 
Well,  the  instant  this  old  man  '  fell  in  '  I  saw  he  was  a 
soldier.  I  yanked  him  out  of  that  awkward  squad  in 
five  seconds  and  put  him  in  a  company.  I  kept  on 
watching  him.  He  had  the  tactics  down  to  his  finger- 
ends.  I've  used  him  two  or  three  times  at  a  pinch  to 
help  me  drill  awkward  squads/' 

"Nothing  very  mysterious  about  that,  is  there?" 
yawned  the  major.  "I've  read  several  more  thrilling 
mystery  stories  by  Poe  and  Gaboriau." 

"  The  mystery  is  this,'*  said  the  lieutenant,  ignoring 
the  elephantine  sarcasm.  "I  can't  get  him  to  admit 
he's  ever  served  before.  He  just  shut  up  like  a  clam 
when  I  asked  him.  His  name  is  Dadd  —  James  Dadd. 
I  took  the  bother  to  look  up  the  name  on  the  old  army 
rolls.  There's  never  been  such  a  name  in  the  United 
States  army.     He  isn't  a  foreigner,  either." 

"  May  be  serving  under  another  name,"  suggested 
the  major,  whom  the  story  did  not  at  all  interest. 

"  Is  it  probable  ?  Nowadays  men  are  only  too  anx- 
ious to  be  known  as  enlisting  for  the  flag.  And  there 
are  big  chances  for  promotion  for  men  who  have  served 
before.  He  wouldn't  be  likely  to  miss  those  chances  by 
changing  his  name  and  refusing  to  admit  he  was  a  vet- 
eran.    No,  it's  a  bit  mysterious.     And — " 

A  redoubled  chorus  of  yells  from  the  car  brought 
the  several  officers  in  the  compartment  instinctively  to 
their  feet.  Crowding  to  the  door,  they  peered  out  over 
each  other's  shoulders  into  the  traveling  bedlam. 


A  LESSON  IN  MANNERS  79 

The  humorist  had  just  put  a  capstone  on  his  achieve- 
ment of  wit  by  creeping  slyly  up  behind  the  old  man 
whom  he  had  been  bombarding  with  peanut-shells,  and 
emptying  the  entire  residue  of  the  paper-bag's  contents 
down  the  back  of  his  patient  victim's  neck. 

The  exploit  brought  forth  tumultuous  applause  from 
thq  uncouth  crowd  of  onlookers  near  by. 

Dad,  who  had  smiled  amusedly  as  each  peanut  of  the 
earlier  volleys  had  chanced  to  hit  him,  now  laughed 
aloud  in  tolerant  mirth.  He  had  seen  new-comers  far 
more  mercilessly  hazed  in  his  earlier  army  days.  To 
him  the  rude  fun  was  the  mere  animal  spirit  of  a  gath- 
ering of  children,  bent  on  larking  it  while  out  for  a 
holiday. 

And  while  he  did  not  greatly  enjoy  the  task  of  scrap- 
ing harsh  peanut-shells  from  between  his  collar  and  his 
neck,  it  struck  him  as  decidedly  amusing  that  a  full- 
grown  man  like  this  partly  drunk  bargee  should  find 
joy  in  such  foolishness  and  that  others  should  deem  it 
funny  enough  to  send  them  into  recurrent  and  boister- 
ous guffaws. 

He  was  glad,  though,  that  they  could  laugh.  It 
would  shift  their  thoughts  from  the  grief  of  leave- 
taking.  He  was  quite  willing  to  be  the  butt  of  their 
laughter  so  long  as  it  served  so  good  a  purpose. 

The  bargee,  however,  was  far  from  pleased  at  his  vic- 
tim's tolerant  attitude.  He  would  have  preferred  to 
see  the  old  man  stamp  and  swear  in  impotent!  rage  or 
mumble  piteously  futile  threats  at  his  tormentor. 


80  "  DAD '' 

To  achieve  some  such  end  he  came  around  in  front 
o{  Dad  and,  hands  on  hips,  leered  down  at  the  pleas- 
antly smiling  target  of  his  clownish  Activities. 

"  Well,  gran'pa,"  said  he,  "  ain't  you  goiri'  to  thank 
me  for  them  generous  gifts  I  been  lavishin'  so  free- 
handed and  kind  on  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,''  agreed  Dad.  "  Much  obliged,  my 
friend.  Only  you  mistook  the  location  of  my  mouth. 
It's  in  front  here,  not  at  the  back  of  my  neck,  as  you 
seem  to  have  made  the  mistake  of  thinking." 

Some  one  tittered  at  this  very  mild  pleasantry. 

The  titter  nettled  the  bargee.  He  desired  a  mo- 
nopoly of  laughs,  and  through  vexation  his  merrymak- 
ing at  once  assumed  a  more  caustic  tone. 

"  Kind  of  a  smart  Abe,  ain't  ye? "  he  queried. 
"  Guess  that  kind  o'  talk  passes  for  funny  back  in  the 
Old  Men's  Home,  don't  it  ?  Or  did  they  dig  you  up  out 
of  somebody's  fam'ly  vault?  " 

"  Aw,  drop  it,  Cy ! "  expostulated  a  softer-hearted 
recruit  across  the  aisle. 

"  That's  right,"  assented  the  bargee.  "  He  may  be 
somebody's  great-great-granddaddy.  Gran'ma  starved 
him  and  larruped  him  with  a  broom-handle  back  home, 
so  he  run  away  to  get  a  square  feed  at  Uncle  Sammy's 
expense.     Ain't  that  the  way  of  it,  gran'pa?  " 

"  Sonny,"  replied  Dad,  still  smiling  and  In  perfect 
good  nature,  "  I  ran  away  because  somebody  stole  my 
comic  almanac,  and  I  couldn't  get  on  without  it.  I 
missed  it  a  lot  —  till  I  met  you." 

The  titter  rose  again,  this  time  swelled  by  several 


A  LESSON  IN  MANNERS  81 

voices.     The  bargee  reddened  as  he  sought  to  digest  the 
dubious  repartee. 

Nevertheless,  he  essayed  to  answer  the  none  too  subtle 
gibe  in  like  vein. 

"  It's  bad  enough,"  he  grumbled,  "  to  stand  up  and 
get  shot  at  for  thirteen  dollars  a  month.  But  when 
we've  got  to  stomach  an  old  goat  like  you,  along  with 
the  job,  by  goUies,  it  adds  new  horrors  to  war!  You 
talk  like  you're  the  same  breed  as  old  monkey-faced 
Abe,  down  there  in  Washington." 

The  smile  was  wiped  clean  off  Dad's  face  now.  His 
eyes  were  cold,  and  his  mouth  was  set  in  a  very  straight, 
thin  line. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said  with  slow  gravity,  "  you  don't 
realize  what  you  are  saying.  So  I  will  explain  to  you, 
if  you  will  let  me.  President  Abraham  Lincoln  is  com- 
mander-in-chief of  the  army  to  which  you  have 
sworn  allegiance.  In  speaking  of  your  commander- 
in-chief  as  you  have  just  done,  you  do  not 
insult  him  —  he  is  too  high  for  insults  to  reach  him  — 
but  you  insult  your  army,  and  likewise  your  own  self- 
respect.  You  didn't  stop  to  think  of  that  when  you 
spoke,  did  you?  I'm  sure  you  didn't.  But  you  will 
another  time." 

The  bargee's  head  shot  forward  from  between  his 
suddenly  hunched  shoulders.  There  was  a  menacing 
scowl  on  his  low,  receding  brow,  below  which  his  eyes 
had  narrowed  to  pinpoints  that  gleamed  redly. 

"  I  don't  want  no  lectures,"  he  snarled,  "  from  any 
fat-headed  old  blowhard."     Angry,  the  bargee,  never- 


82  "DAD" 

theless,  rejoiced  in  secret  that  at  last  he  had  aroused 
his  foe  from  his  former  kindly  calm.  "  And  I've  got  a 
right  to  speak  my  opinions  as  I  choose  to.  This  is  a 
free  country.  Or  it  was  till  they  stuck  up  a  lantern- 
jawed,  backwoods  booby  in  the  President's  chair. 
That's  some  more  of  my  opinions ;  how  d'ye  like  that?  " 

Somebody  hissed.  The  hiss  was  taken  up  from  var- 
ious parts  of  the  car. 

But  at  the  next  moment  every  man  was  on  his  feet; 
and  on  the  instant  hush  that  had  fallen  a  hundred  necks 
were  craned. 

With  almost  incalculable  swiftness  Dad  had  sprung 
up  and  faced  the  bargee.  The  latter,  reading  the  white- 
fire  message  in  the  lately  kind  blue  eyes,  hesitated  not 
the  fraction  of  a  second,  but  struck  out  instinctively. 

The  hamlike  fist  swished  portentously  through  the 
air. 

But  the  air  was  all  it  encountered.  Dad,  ducking 
the  blow,  ran  in.  Before  the  bargee  could  grapple,  he 
was  lifted  bodily  on  high. 

Down  he  came.  Not  to  the  floor,  but  to  a  bended 
knee  that  caught  him  lengthwise  athwart  the  middle  of 
the  body.  The  bargee  doubled,  face  downward,  across 
Dad's  knee  —  like  a  jack-knife. 

One  iron  hand  on  the  back  of  his  fat  neck  pinioned 
his  head  to  the  floor.  With  the  other  hand  Dad  smote 
—  smote  again,  and  yet  again  and  again. 

Wide-handed  he  struck  and  with  open  palm  on  the 
portion  of  the  bargee's  anatomy  which,  in  that  posi- 


A  LESSON  IN  MANNERS  83 

tion,  presented  the  largest  and,  in  all  respects,  the  most 
convenient  striking  surface. 

The  blows  of  the  spanking  resounded  like  prolonged 
theater  applause.  The  bargee  struggled  and  writhed 
and  kicked.  But  all  in  vain.  The  hand  and  arm  that 
held  him  fast  were  as  strong  as  they  were  deft. 

With  no  shadow  of  annoyance  on  his  handsome  face, 
Dad  continued  to  spank,  while  the  car  shook  with  howls 
of  delight  from  a  hundred  throats  —  howls  that  quite 
downed  the  bargee's  lurid  vocabulary. 

At  length  Dad  paused.  Palm  significantly  upraised, 
he  asked  gently: 

"  President  Lincoln  is  a  great  man,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Y-yes,"  groaned  the  bargee,  after  a  moment  of  hesi- 
tation. 

"You'll  never  forget  that  again? '* 

"  No." 

"  I'm  glad.  Get  up  now,  and  let's  be  friends. 
Won't  you  share  my  seat.f^  Or  —  perhaps,  under  the 
circumstances,  you'll  feel  more  comfortable  to  stand  up 
for  a  while," 


CHAPTER  X 

SEEGEANT  DADD 

A  SEA  of  pale-green  sward,  bathed  In  a  drift  of  pink- 
white  apple-blossoms.     Above,  the  softest  of  blue 
spring  skies. 

In  the  middle  distance  the  hazy  mountains  brave  in 
their  spring  panoply.  And,  between  mountains  and 
apple-orchard,  a  line  of  trampled  grain-fields,  sown  now 
with  hundreds  of  sprawling  dead  men  in  dark  blue  and 
in  light  gray. 

Back  of  the  glowing  white  orchard  a  dingy  white 
city  that  had  sprung  to  life  overnight.  A  city  of  many 
long  streets,  each  lined  with  battered  canvas  tents. 

Over  one  of  these  tents  — •  a  tent  large  and  less  dingy 
than  its  humbler  fellows  —  floated  an  American  flag 
topped  by  a  gilded  eagle.  The  veriest  three-month  re- 
cruit would  have  known  the  tent  by  its  insignia  as  the 
temporary  abode  of  the  general  commanding. 

Through  the  opening  made  by  the  pinned-back  flap 
the  interior  was  visible.  At  the  back  was  a  cot ;  beside 
it  a  shabby  campaign  trunk. 

In  the  tent's  center  was  a  collapsible  table,  at  which, 

on  a  campaign  stool,  sat  a  bearded  man  in  a  gold-laced 

blue  coat  which  bore  the  rank  mark  of  a  general  officer 

of  the  Union  army. 

841 


SERGEANT  DADD  85 

At  attention  in  front  of  the  general  stood  a  tall,  wiry 
man,  bronzed  of  face,  his  grizzled  hair  close  clipped,  his 
eye  the  eye  of  a  boy.  Sergeant's  stripes  adorned  the 
arm  of  his  fatigue  jacket. 

Few  of  the  old  Eagle  Hotel  coterie  back  in  Ideala 
would  have  recognized  at  a  glance,  in  the  trim,  alert 
figure,  their  old  crony,  the  portly  and  shambling  Dad. 

The  loose  flesh  that  had  accumulated  during  four- 
teen years  of  bibulous  indulgence  had  vanished;  to  be 
replaced  by  hard  muscle.  The  alcohol  had  been  utterly 
banished  from  his  system  by  nine  months  of  hard  work- 
ing and  clean,  outdoor  living. 

At  Ideala  he  would  have  passed  for  sixty;  here  for 
little  more  than  forty. 

"  Sergeant  Dadd,"  said  the  general,  looking  up  from 
some  papers  and  maps  on  the  table  as  the  non-commis- 
sioned officer's  shadow  fell  athwart  his  vision,  "  I  have 
sent  for  you  to  act  as  courier  in  getting  copies  of  some 
important  plans  through  to  General  Hooker.  Your 
success  in  carrying  a  message  across  thirty  miles  of 
country  infested  by  the  enemy's  skirmishing  parties  last 
month  has  been  reported  to  me.  That  is  why  I  have 
sent  for  you  now." 

Dad's  face  did  not  relax  its  look  of  military  blank- 
ness.  But  a  faint  flush  of  pleasure  tinged  the  tan  of 
his  cheeks. 

The  general  as  he  spoke  was  sorting  from  the  heap 
before  him  several  papers  whereon  were  written  pages, 
columns  of  figures  and  rough-drawn  plans.  These  he 
thrust  into  an  envelope,  which  he  triple-sealed  with  wax 


86  "  DAD  " 

heated  in  a  tallow  dip  that  sputtered  for  that  purpose 
on  one  corner  of  the  table.  . 

Then,  addressing  the  envelope,  he  sanded  it  and 
passed  it  across  the  table  into  the  outstretched  hand  of 
Dad. 

"  To  General  Hooker  himself,  and  no  other,^'  he  said 
succinctly. 

Dad  saluted,  thrusting  the  envelope  Into  the  bosom 
of  his  flannel  shirt.  Vaguely  he  wondered  why  he,  an 
infantry  sergeant,  should  be  chosen  for  this  task  in  a 
camp  that  bristled  with  aids  and  couriers. 

His  former  feat  of  the  sort  had  been  performed  in 
a  moment  of  dire  emergency,  for  which  volunteers  had 
been  requested.  He  had  volunteered,  had  accomplished 
the  ticklish  task,  and  had  thereby  won  promotion  from 
a  second  to  a  first  sergeancy  in  his  company. 

But  as  the  general  spread  out  a  pocket  map  on  the 
table  and  pointed  to  the  present  position  of  General 
Hooker's  headquarters.  Dad  began  to  understand  why 
a  specially  equipped  man,  instead  of  an  ordinary 
courier,  had  been  selected  for  this  particular  purpose. 

Dad  was  familiar  with  the  surrounding  region.  His 
corps  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  had  marched  and 
fought  and  countermarched  and  bivouacked  and  ad- 
vanced and  retreated  across  nearly  every  square  foot 
of  it  for  the  past  two  months. 

He  saw  from  a  glance  at  the  map  the  location  Gen- 
eral Hooker  had  chosen  for  his  new  headquarters.  It 
was  nearly  forty  miles  away,  and  between  it  and  the 
camp  behind  the  apple  orchard  lay  a  section  of  country 


SERGEANT  DADD  87 

that  the  Confederate  victory  of  the  preceding  day 
would  set  a-swarm  with  graycoats. 

This  battle  —  whose  grim  harvest  still  lay  ungathered 
along  the  mountain  foot,  ten  miles  distant  —  had 
driven  back  a  portion  of  the  Union  line  that  was  seek- 
ing to  wriggle  its  way  along  the  Virginia  peninsula  to- 
ward Richmond. 

The  several  corps  were  widely  scattered. 

And  in  the  interstices  —  notably  between  this  spot 
and  General  Hooker's  headquarters  —  were  masses  of 
Confederate  guerrilla-bands,  Confederate  skirmish  com- 
panies, Confederate  scout-parties,  and  even  swift- 
marching  Confederate  regiments  and  brigades. 

To  cross  the  intervening  space  unmolested  was  an 
exploit  easier  for  a  high-flying  crow  to  accomplish  than 
for  a  human  being  —  particularly  when  that  human  be- 
ing chanced  to  be  a  blue-uniformed  Yankee  soldier. 

The  general,  raising  his  eyes  from  the  map  on  which 
with  a  pencil-butt  he  was  tracing  the  route  from  start 
to  destination,  read  in  Dad's  eyes  the  knowledge  of 
what  the  journey  must  mean. 

"  It  is  an  expedition  for  a  full  brigade,"  said  the 
general,  "  or  —  for  one  resourceful  man.  I  do  not  un- 
derestimate the  peril  of  capture,  nor  do  I  formally  com- 
mand you  to  go.  I  merely  give  you  a  chance  to  volun- 
teer for  the  mission  if  you  wish  to  assume  its  responsi- 
bilities." 

Dad  saluted  again. 

"  I  beg  to  volunteer,  sir,"  said  he  with  decisive  mili- 
tary brevity. 


88  «  DAD  " 

"  I  was  certain  you  would,"  nodded  the  general.  "  I 
made  the  request  as  a  technicality.  I  warn  you,  ser- 
geant, that  the  chances  of  capture  are  at  least  ten  to 
one  against  you.  That  is  why  I  wish  you  to  go  in 
uniform.  It  may  lessen  your  prospects  of  success,  but 
in  the  event  of  capture  you  will  be  a  prisoner  of  war 
and  not  hanged." 

Dad  looked  more  keenly  at  the  speaker.  This  gen- 
eral of  his  had  not  the  reputation  of  nursing  carefully 
his  men's  lives,  nor  of  placing  those  lives  ahead  of  suc- 
cessful achievement. 

Dad  wondered  a  little  at  the  man's  unusual  considera- 
tion. But  quickly  he  dismissed  the  problem  as  not  only 
too  deep  for  him,  but  as  immaterial. 

He  was  eager  to  be  off  upon  this  hazardous  venture. 
He  knew  the  country.  He  knew  his  route,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  pit  his  brains  and  his  luck  against  whatever 
foes  might  infest  the  intervening  districts. 

"You  ride?"  asked  the  general. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  will  gain  time  that  way.  The  risk  is  greater, 
but  so  is  the  speed.  Go  to  your  quarters  and  get 
ready.  I  will  order  a  fast  horse  sent  there  to  you  in 
five  minutes.  Start  at  once  when  it  arrives.  Well," 
he  went  on  impatiently  as  Dad  hesitated,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  ventured  Dad.  "  A  man  who  is 
captured  may  sometimes  get  away,  but  the  papers  he 
has  are  seized  as  soon  as  he  is  caught.  If  I  am  taken 
and  if  I  get  away  again  without  my  papers,  is  there  any 
verbal  message  that  I  may  take  to  General  Hooker? 


SERGEANT  DADD  89 

Any  outline  of  the  nature  of  those  plans  I  am  to 
carry  ?  " 

"  No ! '' 

The  general  spoke  sharply  and  in  a  tone  of  stark 
finality,  turning  his  back  on  the  volunteer  courier  and 
resuming  his  work  at  the  tabled.  His  manner  toward 
him  had  all  at  once  changed  from  the  unwontedly  fa- 
miliar to  the  customarily  dictatorial. 

Again  wondering  a  little,  Dad  left  the  tent  and  made 
his  way  hurriedly  down  the  camp  street  to  his  own 
company's  quarters. 

There  it  was  the  work  of  two  minutes  to  make  his 
soldierly  preparations  for  the  trip. 

Then,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  await  the  arrival  of 
the  expected  horse,  he  filled  and  lighted  a  pipe,  sat  down 
on  a  roll  of  blankets  in  the  tent  doorway,  and  with  a 
stick  fell  to  tracing  in  the  dirt  a  line  of  his  proposed 
route,  that  each  step  of  the  way  might  thereafter  be 
fresh  in  his  mind  as  he  started  on  his  errand. 

This  act  of  concentration  was  by  no  means  easy,  for 
a  half  score  of  lounging  infantrymen  were  lying  on  the 
grass  near  by,  smoking  and  talking  over  the  events  of 
the  preceding  day's  battle. 

Realizing  that  a  soldier  in  the  ranks  knows  far  less 
about  the  actual  actions  and  effects  of  a  battle  in  which 
he  has  just  been  engaged  than  does  the  non-combatant 
stay-at-home  who  reads  a  telegraphed  account  of  it  next 
day  in  his  morning  newspaper.  Dad  gave  no  particular 
heed  to  their  frankly  voiced  conjectures  and  boasts. 

Presently,  as  they  were  discussing  a  certain  disas- 


90  "  DAD  " 

trous  attempt  to  rally  a  retreating  regiment,  he  heard 
a  newly  joined  member  of  his  companjr  —  who  formerly 
had  fought  in  the  army  of  the  West  —  break  loudly  in 
upon  the  group's  debating: 

"Talk  of  rallying!  We  ought  to  have  had  Battle 
Jimmie  along.  He'd  have  drummed  that  whole  skedad- 
dling regiment  to  a  halt  in  less  than  no  time ;  and  then 
he'd  have  led  'em  back  to  the  firing-line,  blackguard- 
ing them  for  a  rabble  of  cowards  every  step  of  the 
way." 

"  What's  Battle  Jimmie?  "  drawled  a  lank  New  Eng- 
lander.  "  That's  a  new  name  to  me.  What  is  it  — 
a  dog  or  a  bird  or  a  patent  medicine  ?  " 

"Don't  know  who  Battle  Jimmie  is?"  cried  the 
Westerner  in  scornful  incredulity,  "  Next  you'll  be 
askin'  who's  Little  Mac  or  Father  Abraham  or  Fightin' 
Joe." 

"  Maybe  I  will  at  that,"  answered  the  New  Eng- 
lander.     "  But  who  the  dickens  is  — " 

"  Battle  Jimmie  ?  There  ain't  a  man  in  the  army  of 
the  West  who'd  ask  that  question.  And  yet  —  I 
dunno  who  he  is.  Nobody  does.  First  time  we  ever 
saw  him  was  back  in  the  late  fall.  We  were  chargin' 
a  line  of  batteries  on  a  hill,  and  as  fast  as  we'd  get  half- 
way up  the  hill  we'd  break  and  scuttle  back  to  cover, 
which  sure  wasn't  none  too  healthy  on  that  hillside. 

"  The  fourth  time  we  tackled  the  hill  we  hadn't  any 
too  much  love  for  the  job,  and  we  begin  to  waver  and 
get  unenthoosiastic  before  we've  gone  a  quarter  of  the 


SERGEANT  DADD  91 

distance.  Then  all  of  a  sudden,  skallyhootin'  out  of 
nowhere,  comes  Battle  Jimmie. 

"  He's  in  a  cast-off  uniform  miles  too  big  for  him, 
and  he's  got  hold  of  a  drum  somehow  or  other.  And, 
say,  boys,  the  noise  he  could  tease  out  of  that  old  drum 
was  sure  a  caution  to  snakes. 

"  Right  in  front  of  our  first  rank  he  runs,  hammerin' 
away  at  that  blessed  drum;  chargin'  up  the  hill  ahead 
of  us  in  a  whole  beehive  of  bullets  and  grape,  yellin': 
*  Come  along,  you  lazy  coots !  Shake  a  leg  there ! 
Don't  keep  me  waitin'  when  I  get  to  the  top.  I  don't 
want  the  bother  of  havin'  to  clean  out  them  Johnnie 
Reb  batteries  all  by  myself ! ' 

"  There  was  one  great  big  laugh  went  up  that  was 
more  like  a  cheer.  It  came  roarin'  out  from  the  whole 
line.  We  forgot  to  be  discouraged  any  more,  and  up 
the  hill  we  kited  after  that  fool  boy  and  his  drum. 

"  We  didn't  stop  till  we  was  over  the  breastworks  and 
right  in  among  the  guns,  and  the  Confeds  was  scram- 
blin'  out  the  opposite  side  to  get  away.  After  that 
Battle  Jimmie  could  have  his  pick  of  anythin'  the  army 
of  the  West  had  in  their  whole  camp  — " 

The  arrival  of  a  roan  cavalry  charger,  led  by  an 
orderly,  ended  the  narrative  of  Battle  Jimmie,  so  far 
as  Dad  was  concerned.  His  mind  full  of  his  mission, 
he  had  given  little  attention  to  it. 

Now,  swinging  into  the  saddle,  he  set  off  at  an  easy 
canter. 

Ahead  of  him  lay  an  errand  whose  chances  of  success 


92  "  DAD '' 

the  general  himself  had  estimated  as  one  in  ten.  The 
prospect  of  such  fearful  odds  sent  a  glad  thrill  of  com- 
bat tingling  warmly  through  the  veteran. 

"  Jockeys  have  won  races  against  digger  odds  than 
that,"  he  mused  joyously,  "with  only  a  purse  as  re- 
ward. It'll  go  hard  if  I  can't  do  as  well  with  the  coun- 
try's fortunes  maybe  as  my  stake.  I'll  win  out,  or  — 
I  won't  be  alive  to  know  I'm  a  failure.'* 

For  twenty  miles  Dad  rode  in  safety. 

That  did  not  mean  he  covered  twenty  straight-away 
miles  of  his  journey.  On  the  contrary,  he  lessened  the 
distance  between  himself  and  Hooker's  headquarters  by 
less  than  twelve  miles. 

Avoiding  main  roads  as  far  as  possible;  reconnoiter- 
ing  and  then  making  detours  when  danger  seemed  to 
threaten  or  when  fresh  hoof-marks  denoted  the  recent 
passing  of  cavalrymen;  going  out  of  his  way  to  take 
advantage  of  hillock-and-forest  shelter  —  he  had  al- 
most doubled  the  distance  that  would  have  been  needful 
had  he  followed  the  direct  route. 

Thus  far  he  had  met  with  no  mishap.  Once  he  had 
plunged  into  a  thicket,  halted  abruptly  there,  and  dis- 
mounted as  a  troop  of  gray-coated  patrols  jingled 
past  on  the  road  barely  twenty  yards  distant.  Cau- 
tiously reaching  downward,  he  had  snatched  a  handful 
of  sweet  fern,  and  with  it  had  rubbed  his  horse's  nos- 
trils; lest  the  beast  catching  the  scent  of  the  patrols' 
horses,  should  whinny. 

Again  he  had   turned  quickly   into  a  high-banked 


SERGEANT  DADD  93 

and  twisting  lane  at  sight  of  a  dust-cloud  far  ahead  and 
thus  avoided  a  battalion  of  Jackson's  cavalry. 

A  third  time  he  had  spurred  his  horse  into  a  gully 
of  red  clay  on  sound  of  hoof-beats,  just  before  a  band 
of  guerrillas,  or  bushwhackers,  had  cantered  by. 

His  senses  super-tense,  calling  on  himself  for  every 
scouting  trick  that  old-time  experience  could  devise, 
Dad  wound  his  tortuous  way  safely  through  a  score  of 
pitfalls  that  would  have  entrapped  a  lesser  man. 

The  farther  he  rode  the  more  fully  he  realized  the 
truth  of  his  general's  forecast  that  the  chances  against 
his  winning  through  to  Hooker  were  ten  to  one. 

In  fact,  the  prospect  of  any  one's  making  the  whole 
trip  in  safety  was  negligible. 

The  whole  countryside  was  alive  with  Confederates. 
Dad  could  see  traces  of  their  passage  everywhere. 
More  than  once  he  was  tempted  to  dismount  and  trust 
to  the  greater  safety,  if  lesser  speed,  of  a  foot  journey. 

Halting,  as  usual,  before  rounding  the  bend  of  a  by- 
road, he  strained  his  ears  to  catch  any  sound  of  riders 
ahead.     There  was  only  the  drowsy  spring  silence. 

He  trotted  around  the  wooded  curve  —  and  passed 
four  men  who  sprawled,  half  asleep,  on  the  wayside 
grass,  their  grazing  horses  hobbled  behind  them. 

A  glance  told  Dad  the  occupation  and  character  of 
the  resting  quartet. 

They  were  guerrillas ;  such  as  infected  both  Northern 
and  Southern  armies.  Irregular  troops  in  demi-uni- 
form,  who  pursued  a  system  of  free-lance  fighting,  and 
often  of  free-lance  plundering  as  well. 


94  "  DAD  " 

He  had  ridden  too  far  into  their  line  of  vision  to  re- 
treat. His  uniform  was  an  instant  introduction.  The 
fine  horse  that  he  rode  was,  alone,  worth  a  chase  from 
these  horse-loving  Confederate  marauc^ers. 

At  sight  of  the  rider  one  of  the  somnolent  guerrillas 
opened  an  eye.  The  spectacle  of  a  blue  uniform  set 
both  eyes  wide-open. 

He  called  loudly  to  his  fellows.  All  four  sat  up  with 
the  grotesque  suddenness  of  jumping- jacks. 

Then  they  scrambled  to  their  feet  and  flung  them- 
selves at  the  horseman. 

Dad  had  already  dug  spurs  into  his  mount.  Now 
he  flashed  out  the  pistol  he  had  brought  along.  But, 
finger  on  trigger,  he  hesitated  and  forbore  to  fire,  lest 
the  report  bring  to  the  scene  every  possible  Confeder- 
ate within  a  half-mile. 

The  foremost  guerrilla  reached  his  bridle  and  jumped 
for  it  as  the  horse  darted  nervously  forward  under  the 
sudden  double  impact  of  the  spurs. 

Dad  threw  his  own  body  far  forward  and  with  his 
pistol-butt  caught  the  guerrilla's  outflung  wrist  a  numb- 
ing blow  that  deflected  the  grasp  from  the  bridle 
leather. 

A  second  guerrilla  clutched  at  the  leg  of  the  rider 
himself,  missed  it  by  a  scant  inch,  and  rolled  in  the  dirt 
from  a  glancing  contact  with  the  roan's  flank. 

Dad  was  clear  of  the  men  and  was  still  riding  at  top 
speed.  A  glance  over  his  shoulder  gave  him  a  momen- 
tary picture  of  the  four  turning  back  and  running  for 
their  hobbled  horses.     Apparently  it  was  to  be  a  chase. 


SERGEANT  DADD  95 

Dad  settled  himself  low  in  the  saddle,  returned  his 
pistol  to  its  holster,  and  nursed  his  eager  horse  along 
at  every  atom  of  speed  the  mettled  brute  possessed. 

The  horse  was  not  fresh,  but  was  strong  and  swift. 
Dad,  despite  his  five  feet  eleven  inches  of  muscular 
height,  was  slender  and  no  galling  weight  in  the  sad- 
dle. 

Also,  there  was  every  probability  that  his  pursuers' 
mounts  were  little  fresher  than  his  own. 

Yet  he  was  riding  straight  into  the  enemy's  country, 
with  no  further  chance  of  subterfuge  or  skulking.  At 
any  point  he  might  be  headed  off,  or  speedier  horses 
might  be  added  to  the  chase. 

He  must  trust  to  blind  luck  and  to  no  other  mortal 
agency,  that  he  might  possibly  be  able  to  gain  suf- 
ficient lead  to  give  the  four  guerrillas  the  slip  before 
they  could  drive  him  into  some  body  of  Confederates 
coming  from  an  opposite  direction  or  rouse  the  whole 
region,  against  him. 

And  so  he  rode  as  never  before  he  had  ridden. 

Once  and  again  he  looked  back.  The  guerrillas  were 
mounted  now  and  in  full  pursuit,  strung  out  in  a  long 
line  of  three  vari-sized  groups.  As  he  looked  the  second 
time  the  foremost  gave  voice  to  the  Virginian  fox- 
hunters'  "  View-halloo !  " 

It  was  an  insult  that  stung  the  fugitive  to  hot  rage. 

Snake-fences,  copses,  and  fields  swept  past  on  either 
hand.  The  roan  was  well  in  his  mile-eating  stride,  and 
thus  far  showed  no  sign  of  distress  at  the  fearful  strain 
put  upon  him.     Yard  by  yard,  he  was  pulling  away 


90  "  DAD  " 

froinl  the  four  laboring  steeds  that  thundered  along  in 
his  dusty  wake. 

The  by-road,  at  an  acute  angle,  met  and  merged  with 
the  highway. 

Here  was  added  danger  of  meeting  foes.  But  there 
was  no  other  course  to  take. 

And  into  the  yellow  highway  Dad  guided  the  fleeing 
roan.  As  he  did  so  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  peered 
forward,  the  sharp,  old  eyes  scanning  the  broad  ribbon 
of  road  for  a  full  three  miles  ahead. 

The  next  moment  he  had  brought  his  horse  to  a  merci- 
lessly quick  and  sliding  standstill  that  well-nigh  threw 
the  gallant  beast  off  balance.  Directly  in  front  hung 
a  dust-cloud  seemingly  no  larger  than  a  man's  hand. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DEVIL    AND    DEEP    SEA 

THE  campaigner  Instinct  told  Dad  what  raised  so 
odd  a  cloud  on  the  dry  dust  of  the  road.  From 
its  position  and  formation,  he  knew  it  hung  above  a  cav- 
alry column  of  considerable  size. 

A  glance  at  the  road  at  his  feet  showed  him  that  no 
such  large  body  of  horsemen  had  passed  during  the 
past  two  hours.  The  column,  then,  was  coming  to- 
ward him. 

And  between  him  and  it  lay  no  crossroad. 

There  was  but  one  possible  move  for  him;  for  al- 
ready the  hoof-beats  of  the  four  guerrillas'  horses 
were  growing  louder. 

Dad  wheeled  his  horse  and  rode  back  at  a  dead 
gallop  along  the  main  road  he  had  just  entered. 

Past  the  byway's  mouth  he  sped  and  straight  on. 
The  guerrillas,  still  on  the  byway,  noted  the  maneuver 
and,  with  a  quadruple  yell,  struck  out  across  the  inter- 
vening field  to  cut  him  off. 

And  for  a  brief  space  their  action  favored  the 
refugee. 

For  the  field  they  entered  was  newly  and  deeply 
plowed.     Moreover,  through  its  center,  in  a  depression, 

97 


98  «  DAD '' 

was  a,  bit  of  boggy  ground  almost  worthy  the  name  of 
quagmire. 

The  horses  lumbered  heavily  over  the  plowed  ground 
and  sank  almost  to  their  knees  when  they  came  to  the 
strip  of  mire.  The  roan,  meantime,  tore  along  the 
hard,  yellow  highway  with  undiminished  speed. 

One  of  the  guerrillas  whipped  out  a  pistol  and  fired 
thrice  in  quick  succession. 

A  bullet  whined  querulously  past  Dad's  head.  A 
second  caught  him  fairly  in  the  bridle  arm. 

The  shot  was  fired  at  longest  pistol-range,  and  its 
force  was  almost  spent  before  it  reached  its  mark.  Yet 
it  bit  its  way  through  the  uniform  coat  and  the  shirt- 
sleeve, and  inflicted  a  light  flesh-wound  in  the  fore- 
arm. 

The  shock  of  the  blow  knocked  the  rein  from  Dad's 
left  hand  and  numbed  his  left  arm  to  the  shoulder.  At 
the  jerk  on  the  bit  the  great  roan  swerved  sharply  in 
surprise. 

Dad  caught  the  loose-flung  rein  in  his  right  hand  and 
guided  the  terrified  horse  back  into  the  road's  center. 

As  he  did  so  a  chinkapin  and  live-oak  forest  shut 
him  off  from  the  view  of  the  floundering  guerrillas. 

"  They  never  knew  I  was  hit,"  he  growled. 
"  That's  one  comfort." 

He  glanced  down  at  his  left  arm.  Already  an  in- 
ordinately large  patch  of  blood  was  discoloring  the 
blue  uniform  on  either  side  of  the  bullet  hole. 

*'  Must  have  tapped  a  big  vein  or  maybe  an  artery," 
he  conjectured,  as  he  saw  the  blood  trickle  fast  from 


DEVIL  AND  DEEP  SEA  99 

the  edge  of  his  cuff.  ^^  At  this  rate,  I'll  be  too  weak 
in  a  few  minutes  to  sit  in  the  saddle.  I'll  have  to  stop 
somewhere  to  stanch  it." 

He  looked  back.  No  sign  yet  of  the  guerrillas.  He 
had  been  too  far  away  from  the  larger  cavalry  column, 
he  knew,  for  any  of  its  riders  to  distinguish  himself  or 
his  uniform.  The  thick  woods  still  closed  in  the  road 
on  either  side. 

Dad  looked  for  a  likely  spot  to  penetrate  the  for- 
est. 

But  on  both  sides  of  the  road  a  high  snake-fence 
arose,  a  fence  too  high  for  any  horse  to  jump. 

There  would  be  no  time  to  dismount,  tear  down  a 
panel  of  the  fence,  lead  his  horse  through,  and  repair 
the  gap  so  that  the  guerrillas'  sharp  eyes  would  not  de- 
tect the  recent  break. 

So  on  he  galloped,  hoping  for  a  gate  or  a  lane  far- 
ther ahead. 

With  a  deal  of  wriggling  Dad  got  his  right  arm  out 
of  his  jacket  and  managed  to  wind  the  jacket  itself 
roughly  around  his  left  arm,  that  a  trail  of  blood- 
spots  on  the  road's  dust  might  not  mark  his  path  to  his 
pursuers. 

Around  another  bend  swept  the  galloping  roan. 
And  now  both  forest  and  snake-fence  stopped  abruptly, 
to  continue  a  furlong  farther  on.  The  intervening 
space  was  filled  by  a  soft,  green  lawn  dotted  with  trees, 
and  cut  off  from  the  road  by  a  four- foot  stone  wall. 

Far  back  on  the  lawn  and  bowered  by  oaks  stood  a 
rambling  house  of  colonial  style. 


100  «  DAD  " 

On  its  pillared  front  porch  sat  the  littlest  and  dain- 
tiest woman  imaginable.  She  was  in  black  and  wore  a 
little,  frilled,  white  apron.  Her  grayish  hair  formed  a 
mass  of  soft  curls  around  her  forehefd.  On  her  lap 
was  a  basket  of  knitting. 

All  these  details  Dad's  eyes  saw  without  fairly  grasp- 
ing them  as  he  galloped  into  view.     And  his  heart  sank. 

He  had  heard  of  Southern  women's  splendid  loyalty 
to  "  the  cause.'*  This  woman  would  assuredly  tell  his 
pursuers  that  she  had  seen  a  man  in  Yankee  uniform 
ride  past.  She  would  add  that  he  was  very  palpably 
wounded. 

Thus  would  die  his  last  hope  that  they  might  give 
extra  time  by  pausing  to  beat  up  the  woods  for 
him.  '^ 

Dad  was  turning  away  from  his  fleeting  glance  to 
scan  the  road  ahead  for  a  lane  or  other  opening,  when 
suddenly  he  shifted  his  gaze  in  astonishment  back  to- 
ward the  white-columned  portico. 

The  little  woman  had  sprung  to  her  feet  with  the 
agility  of  a  child  and  was  waving  her  knitting  to  him 
in  frantic  summons. 

He  had  traversed  fully  half  the  length  of  the  cleared 
lawn's  space  as  he  saw  the  signal.  Acting  on  lightning 
instinct,  he  reined  in  his  mount,  wheeled  him  to  one  side, 
and  put  him  at  the  wall. 

The  roan,  with  a  mighty  effort,  cleaj*ed  the  obstacle, 
came  down  heavily  on  all  fours  on  the  springy  turf  of 
the  lawn,  and  bounded  toward  the  house. 

The  little  lady  had  run  down  the  steps  and  was 


DEVIL  AND  DEEP  SEA  101 

jumping  up  and  down  in  wild  excitement  In  the  drive- 
way. 

"  Tumble  off,  quick ! "  she  ordered.  "  Get  Into  the 
hall  there  and  shut  the  door  behind  you.  I'll  tie  your 
horse  In  that  magnolia  copse  over  yonder.  It's  so 
thick-grown  I  guess  they'd  hunt  a  week  before  sus- 
picioning  a  critter  was  hid  there." 

Dad  rolled  out  of  the  saddle  In  dazed  obedience, 
staggered  weakly  up  the  steps  and  Into  a  broad  hall 
that  bisected  the  house  from  front  to  rear.  The  dim 
coolness  struck  him  like  a  blow.  He  groped  for  a 
horsehair  sofa  that  he  could  just  distinguish  In  the 
half-light,  sank  down  on  It,  and  slid  helplessly  from 
its  slippery  seat  to  the  polished  floor  —  In  a  dead 
faint. 

Within  a  mmute  he  opened  his  eyes  and  broke  Into  a 
fit  of  strangled  coughing.  A  most  horrible  odor  had 
gripped  his  sense  of  smelL 

Above  him  knelt  the  little  woman.  In  one  hand  she 
held  a  bunch  of  feathers  torn  from  a  duster;  in  the 
other  a  still  lighted  match.  A  fume  of  smoke  from 
the  feathers  spoke  eloquently  of  the  odor's  origin. 

"  Nothing  like  burning  a  bunch  of  feathers  under  a 
body's  nose  to  bring  them  out  of  a  fainting  fit,"  she  was 
saying  cheerily.  "  Don't  look  so  wild,  man.  You're 
safe  enough.  Or  you  will  be  presently.  Can  you  stand 
up?     Try." 

Dad  called  on  all  his  failing  strength  and,  helped  by 
the  little  lady  and  a  hand  on  the  sofa-arm,  reeled  to  his 
feet. 


102  "DAD" 

"  So!  "  she  approved.  "  Now,  you  just  lean  on  me 
and  on  the  banisters.  We've  got  some  climbing  to  do. 
Your  horse  is  safe  hid.  And  the  men  that  were  chas- 
ing you  have  ridden  past.     But  they'll  be  back." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    LITTLE    LADY 

GRITTING  his  teeth  to  keep  his  will-power  up  to 
the  task.  Dad  began  mounting  the  spiral  stairs 
that  led  from  the  big  hallway  to  the  upper  regions  of 
the  house.  He  leaned  heavily  on  the  mahogany  banis- 
ters on  one  side,  and  as  lightly  as  possible  on  the  little 
lady's  black  bombazine  shoulder  upon  the  other. 

Once  or  twice  dizziness  again  overcame  him.  But  he 
forced  it  back. 

They  reached  the  upper  hall.  Dad  would  have 
stopped,  but  his  inexorable  guide  urged  him  on. 

Down  the  hall  they  went,  and  at  the  farther  end  came 
to  a  door  that  she  unlocked  and  opened.  Before  them 
rose  a  shorter,  narrower,  steeper  flight  of  steps. 

A  herculean  struggle  brought  Dad  to  the  summit 
of  these.  Around  him  were  dim  spaces,  vaguely  red- 
olent of  old  lavender.  Somewhere  near  bees  were 
sleepily  booming  and  crooning. 

His  eyes  growing  used  to  the  dim  light,  he  saw  that 

he  was  in  a  huge  garret  —  a  garret  wherein  were  strewn 

quaint   bits    of   bygone    furniture,   horse-hide   trunks, 

ghostly    garments    in    white    muslin    wrappings,    and 

broken-down  household  goods  of  every  description. 

.  *'  Sit  there ! "  ordered  the  little  lady,  thrusting  him 

103 


104*  «  DAD '' 

gently  Into  the  depths  of  a  soft,  old  armchair  whose  up- 
holstery was  shamelessly  moth-eaten. 

"  Now,'*  as  he  gratefully  followed  her  conunand, 
"  just  stay  there  till  I  come  back."    ^ 

She  vanished. 

Dad  stared  after  her  in  dull  wonder.  His  mind  was 
still  hazy.  He  knew  he  had  fainted  momentarily 
through  loss  of  blood.  But  he  wondered  that  he  had 
since  then  felt  no  weaker  as  the  minutes  had  gone  on. 
Gingerly  he  unwound  the  coat  from  his  injured  arm  and 
rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt. 

Then  he  understood. 

The  vein  that  had  been  tapped  —  it  was  assuredly 
no  artery  nor  even  one  of  the  very  largest  veins  —  had 
bled  in  crass  profusion  for  a  space.  Then  the  caking 
of  the  blood  had  checked  further  flow. 

Dad  was  surgeon  enough  to  realize  that  that  meant 
there  could  be  little  if  any  more  flow  of  blood  from  so 
petty  a  wound. 

He  was  looking  from  side  to  side  in  search  of  some- 
thing better  than  a  uniform  jacket  wherewith  to  bind 
the  hurt,  when  again  the  little  lady  stood  before  him. 

Tucked  under  one  arm  was  a  black  case,  under  the 
other  were  rolls  of  white  bandages.  In  both  hands  sh§ 
bore  a  basin  of  hot  water  in  which  a  soft  sponge  bobbed 
like  a  floating  island. 

"  There ! "  she  said  soothingly.  "  Just  you  lean 
back  and  rest.     I'll  'tend  to  the  wound." 

With  deft  fingers  she  bathed  the  arm,  then  sponged 
the  bullet-graze  clean  of  blood.     From  the  black  case 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  105 

she  drew  a  bottle  filled  with  some  pungent  liquid.  With 
this  liquid  she  washed  out  the  wound,  then  proceeded 
to  bind  it  skillfully  with  a  roll  of  the  bandages. 

So  slight  was  the  hurt  that,  but  for  the  accident  of 
its  touching  the  wrong  vein,  it  might  well  have  caused 
so  healthy  a  man  no  more  annoyance  than  would  the 
process  of  vaccination. 

Yet  for  once  in  his  life  Dad  felt  no  inclination  to  be- 
little a  physical  mishap. 

He  discovered  —  and  wondered  vaguely  at  the  dis- 
covery —  that  it  was  marvelously  pleasant  to  lie  back 
like  this  and  let  his  strange  little  hostess  minister  to  his 
hurt.  Her  touch,  too,  held  for  him  a  strange  and 
soothing  magnetism  all  its  own.  Not  for  twenty  years 
had  a  gentlewoman  laid  her  hand  upon  him. 

The  novelty  of  it  was  delightful.  Yet  in  his  heart 
Dad  felt  the  novelty  was  by  no  means  all. 

As  she  worked,  the  little  lady's  tongue  went  as 
nimbly  as  her  fingers. 

"  Isn't  this  what  Ehud  used  to  call  rank  good  luck?  " 
she  was  saying.  "  This  afternoon  of  all  afternoons, 
too.  Why,  three  days  out  of  four  I'm  as  busy  as 
tunket  all  afternoon.  And  here,  just  to-day,  I  said  to 
myself:  *  I  guess  I'll  sit  on  the  stoop  a  spell  and  play 
lady,  and  do  some  knitting.'  And  I  hadn't  been  there 
three  minutes,  hardly,  when  past  you  came  prancing. 

"  There's  another  piece  of  luck,  too.  Only  this  noon 
I  let  all  three  of  the  house  servants  run  over  to  the  Win- 
stons'  plantation  to  a  wedding  in  the  servants'  quarters 
over  there.     And  I  sent  Tom  —  he's  my  gardener,  the 


106  "  DAD '' 

only  man  slave  I've  got  left  here  —  over  to  see  they 
didn't  stay  too  late.  Any  other  day  they'd  be  screech- 
ing like  a  pack  of  wildcats  at  sight  of  a  Yankee." 

"  But,  madam,"  expostulated  Dad,]  finding  his  voice 
at  last,  "  surely  you  run  a  risk,  harboring  a  fugitive 
Union  soldier.     It  was  selfish  in  me  not  to  — " 

"  Risks.?  "  She  caught  him  up  gayly.  "  Sakes!  I 
run  risks  every  day  of  my  blessed  life  these  times. 
When  the  Confederates  aren't  stealing  my  chickens  the 
Yankees  are  stealing  my  pigs.  Or  both  of  them  in 
turns  are  stealing  my  cows.  It's  a  mercy  my  teeth  are 
my  own,  or  those  would  have  gone,  too,  long  ago." 

"  Still,  there  must  surely  be  a  risk  in  hiding  me  here. 
You  said  those  men  would  come  back.  And  if  they 
do—" 

"  If  they  do,"  she  finished,  "  I'll  have  to  ask  the  re- 
cording angel  to  blot  out  some  of  the  fibs  I'll  tell  them. 
Risk.?  There's  no  risk.  They  aren't  likely  to  search 
the  house.  Not  upstairs,  anyhow.  The  servants  won't 
know  anything,  and  I  don't  believe  anyone  will  search 
the  magnolia  thicket  to  see  if  there's  a  horse  tethered 
there. 

"  Just  you  rest  easy.  There's  no  risk  —  either  for 
you  or  for  me." 

"  I  can't  thank  you,"  he  faltered.  "  I  haven't  words 
to.     But  I  think  you  know  how  grateful  I  am." 

"  Grateful  for  what  ?  For  not  letting  you  ride  on 
until  you  ran  into  some  picket-party  down  the  road? 
Nonsense!     There's  nothing  to  be  grateful  about. 

"  When  I  saw  you  streaking  past  my  house,  wounded. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  107 

on  that  fine  big  horse  of  yours,  I  knew  well  enough  no 
Yankee  i?oldier  would  be  choosing  these  parts  to  take 
a  pleasure  ride  in^  I  knew  by  the  way  you  rode  there 
must  be  someone  after  you.  So  what  was  there  to  do 
but  a-sk  you  in?  " 

"I  —  I  thought  you  Southern  ladies  hated  all 
Yankees  like  poison.     I  hardly  expected  — '' 

**  Southern  ladies  ?  Me?  Dear  nran*,  southern 
Massachusetts  is  the  farthest  south  /  was  born.  Bom 
and  bred  there.  In  South  Wilbr^am,  ten  miles  out  of 
Springfield.     Do  I  talk  Southern?  " 

"  No.     I  —  that  is  why  I  wondered  — " 

"We  came  South  here,  to  Virginia,  ten  years  ago. 
My  husband  —  he  was  Captain  Ehud  Sessions  —  cap- 
tain in  the  Mexican  War,  you  know  —  his  health  failed 
him,  and  Dr.  Ballard  said  he'd  best  go  South  to  live. 
So  we  sold  out  in  Wilbr'am  and  came  down  here.  We 
and  our  daughter.  She's  married  now  and  living  out  in 
New  York  City. 

"  A  couple  of  years  later  Ehud  died.  It  didn't  seem 
to  do  him  any  good  down  here,  and  all  the  time  he  kept 
peaking  for  the  Wilbr'am  mountains.  After  he  died  I 
kept  on  running  the  place  here.  Because  it  was  less 
lonely  here  than  it  would  have  been  back  home  without 
Ehud. 

"  I've  been  doing  it  now  for  eight  years.  All  alone. 
Except  the  servants.  But  a  body  that's  busy  hasn't 
much  time  for  pining.  So —  Have  I  fastened  that 
bandage  too  tight?  " 

"  No.     It  is  perfect.     You  are  a  wonderful  nurse.'' 


108  ^^DAD'*  , 

"  Ehud  always  said  so,"  she  answered,  highly  grati- 
fied at  the  praise.  "  He  knew  a  lot  about  doctoring  and 
nursing.  Picked  it  up  in  the  Mexican  War.  And  he 
taught  it  to  me.  I've  thought  sometimes,  if  this  war 
keeps  up,  maybe  I'll  close  the  place  here  and  run  up  to 
Washington  and  volunteer  as  a  nurse.  They  say 
they're  needed  badly  sometimes  after  battle;  and  there 
aren't  any  too  many  of  them.'* 

"  You  would  put  a  premium  on  recklessness.  Every 
man  would  be  trying  to  get  sick  or  step  in  the  way  of  a 
bullet." 

"  Now  isn^t  that  a  real  pretty  speech ! "  she  cried, 
flushing  delicately.  ^'  And  a  woman  fifty  years  old  her 
last  birthday,  too." 

"  Madam,"  said  Dad,  right  gallantly,  "  I  beg  you 
won't  tax  my  credulity  by  saying  you  are  a  day  over 
thirty." 

"  Listen  to  the  man !  "  she  laughed  happily.  "  Yes, 
sir.  I'm  fifty  years  old  last  May.  According  to  the 
record  in  my  family  Bible." 

"  Never  before  in  my  life,"  returned  Dad,  "  have  I 
been  tempted  to  doubt  the  truth  of  one  word  that  is 
written  in  the  Book  of  Books.     But  — " 

"  Wait ! "  she  said,  as  though  reminded  of  some  neg- 
lected duty ;  and  again  she  vanished. 

This  time  she  was  gone  for  fully  ten  minutes ;  leav- 
ing the  fugitive  to  dream  strange,  sweet,  vague  dreams 
in  the  shadows  of  the  quaint,  old-world  garret. 

At  last  she  came  back,  bearing  this  time  a  tray 
whereon  rested  a  most  delectable  little  supper. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  109 

Dad  had  eaten  nothing  since  dawn.  At  her  behest 
he  fell  to  with  a  will.  And  as  he  ate  his  strength  came 
slowly  back  to  him.  Rest  and  food  were  steadily  re- 
pairing whatever  damage  the  temporary  loss  of  blood 
might  have  wrought  upon  his  seasoned  constitution. 

"  I  took  a  good  look  for  those  guerrillas  of  yours," 
she  said,  as  he  finished  eating.  "But  there's  no  sign 
of  them  yet.  This  road,  in  the  direction  you  were  go- 
ing, winds  and  twists  like  a  sick  adder.  They  might 
ride  on  for  ten  miles  before  they  could  be  sure  you 
weren't  riding  just  ahead  of  them.  And  they'd  have 
to  search  all  along  the  way  back  before  they  could  get 
here." 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said,  starting  up.  "  I've  lost  too 
much  time  already." 

"  If  you're  aiming  to  lose  time,"  said  she,  "  go  by  all 
means.  But  if  you  want  to  get  safely  to  wherever  you 
were  riding,  you'll  stand  a  better  chance  after  night- 
fall, and  especially  after  those  fellows  pass  here  on  their 
way  back.  Otherwise  you  might  run  into  them  at  the 
gate.  There's  much  less  traveling  at  night  on  these 
roads.  Only  the  patrols.  And  they  generally  sing 
to  keep  from  falling  asleep  in  theij*  saddles.  So  you'll 
probably  hear  them  in  time  to  get  out  of  their  way. 
Oh,  and  I  sneaked  out  and  fed  and  watered  your  horse." 

Inclination  for  once  sided  with  common-sense,  and 
Dad  sank  back  again  in  the  big  chair.  The  thought 
that  this  utterly  charming  little  woman  might  be  an- 
noyed by  a  search  of  her  house  on  his  account  sent  his 
hand  involuntarily  to  his  pistol  holster. 


110  "  DAD '' 

It  was  empty. 

With  a  thrill  of  dismay  the  man  realized  that  he  must 
make  the  rest  of  his  perilous  journey  weaponless. 

He  remembered  thrusting  back  the^  revolver  into  its 
holster  after  his  brush  with  the  guerrillas  on  the  by- 
road. He  had  thrust  it  back  carelessly.  And  hard 
riding  had  evidently  caused  it  to  slip  out  of  its  rest- 
ing place  and  tumble,  unnoted  by  him,  to  the  ground. 

His  start  of  surprise  drew  the  little  lady's  attention. 

"What  ails  you?"  she  asked  solicitously.  "Does 
the  wound  hurt?  " 

"  I  wish  it  did,"  he  replied  in  the  ponderous  gallantry 
which  suddenly  had  seemed  to  come  so  easy  to  him,  "  so 
that  I  might  get  you  to  bind  it  for  me  again.  But  it  is 
something  more  important  than  a  petty  scratch  on  the 
forearm  that  bothers  me  just  now.  I've  somehow  lost 
my  pistol.  I  have  no  weapon  to  protect  you  in  case 
those  ruffians  should  try  to  come  in;  and  no  weapon  to 
protect  myself  for  the  balance  of  my  ride." 

"  Oh,  that's  too  bad !  "  she  sympathized.  "  It  beats 
all  how  careless  a  man  is  about  losing  weapons.  Ehud 
was  just  like  that  with  his  razors. 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  protecting  me.  I  won't 
need  any  protecting.  But  if  you  want  something  to 
fight  with  in  case  you  should  be  held  up  on  the  road  — 
why,  I've  got  just  the  very  thing  for  you.  Take  good 
care  of  it,  though,  won't  you?  " 

She  darted  across  the  attic  floor  and  in  among  the 
shadows ;  returning  presently  with  a  straight-bladed  in- 
fantry sword  of  a  somewhat  antique  make. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  111 

Handling  it  almost  with  reverence,  she  offered  it  hilt 
foremost  to  Dad. 

"  It  was  Ehud's,"  she  said  gently.  "  He  set  a  lot  of 
store  by  it.  He  carried  it  all  through  the  Mexican 
War.  I  think  I  told  you  he  was  a  captain  there.  It 
cost  thirty-two  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,  including 
the  lettering.  Is  the  light  too  dim  for  you  to  see  the 
lettering?     It's  on  the  blade. 

"  It  says  '  Draw  me  not  without  cause.  Sheathe 
me  not  without  honor  J* 

"I  —  I  kind  of  think  you're  the  kind  of  man  who  can 
keep  that  commandment.     Take  the  sword." 


1 
CHAPTER  Xin 

THE    ALARM 

DAD  received  the  weapon  from  her  hands  as  rever- 
ently as  she  had  tendered  It.  His  fingers  closed 
about  the  fretted  Ivory  hilt,  and  he  read  In  the  fading 
light  the  Inscription  on  Its  blue-steel  blade. 

Then  he  handed  It  back. 

"  A  beautiful  sword,"  he  said,  a  catch  In  hia  voice, 
"  and  one  that  any  soldier  might  rejoice  to  wear  at  his 
side.  The  sword  of  a  brave  man,  I  am  sure.  Such 
a  man  as  would  to-day  be  striking  gallantly  for  our 
dear  country  If  he  were  still  living.  I  am  honored  past 
words  at  your  gift.     But  —  I  cannot  accept  It." 

"What?"  she  asked,  her  eyes  big  with  wondering 
disappointment.  "Why  not?  I  don't  grudge  It  to 
you,  a  mite.     Nor  Ehud  wouldn't  either." 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  explained,  feeling  as 
though  he  had  brutally  rejected  the  love-offering  of  a 
child.  "  I  cannot  wear  this  splendid  sword  because  I 
am  not  entitled  to.  Such  a  weapon  Is  worn  by  none 
but  commissioned  officers.  I  am  only  a  sergeant.  And 
a  sergeant  Is  not  permitted  to  carry  a  sword  of  this 
kind.     Any  more  than  he  Is  allowed  to  wear  epaulets." 

"  But  — " 

"  I  should  treasure  this  gift  above  any  other  I  have 

lid 


THE  ALARM  113 

ever  had,"  he  went  on,  "  if  the  laws  of  warfare  would  let 
me  take  it.  I  shall  never  forget  that  you  offered  it  to 
me  —  an  utter  stranger  —  out  of  the  generous  bounty 
of  your  heart.  Please  don't  think  I  don't  appreciate 
it." 

Reluctantly  she  restored  the  sword  to  its  hook  on 
the  raftered  ceiling. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "  If  Ehud's  sword  could  go 
on  fighting,  I'd  feel  happier." 

"  If  I  could  carry  it  to  victory,  madam,  I'd  feel 
prouder  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Well,  maybe  you'll  be  able  to  wear  a  sword  at  your 
side  some  of  these  days.  If  you're  a  sergeant  now  and 
if  you  had  the  pluck  to  ride  alone  into  this  nest  of 
hornets  —  By  the  way,  did  you  come  alone  or  were 
you  separated  from  your  regiment  ?  " 

"I  came  alone.  I  am  carrying  dispatches.  To 
General  Hooker." 

"  Fighting  Joe,  eh?  That's  a  man  after  my  own 
heart.     Where  is  he?  " 

Dad  told  her, 

"  Sakes  alive!"  she  ejaculated.  "That's  the  best 
part  of  twenty  miles  from  here.  And  all  the  district 
just  abuzzing  with  Confeds,     You  must  be  brave!  " 

"  No  one  in  our  war  is  brave,"  he  corrected.  "  Some 
are  cowardly.  Some  are  foolhardy.  But  the  bulk  of 
us  on  both  sides  of  the  quarrel  just  plod  along  and  do 
our  duty,  as  I've  tried  to  do  mine  to-day.  It  isn't 
bravery.     It's  duty." 

"  I've  an  idea,"  she  suggested,  "  that  bravery  and 


U4i  "  DAD  " 

duty  add  up  to  pretty  much  the  same  thing;  whether 
it's  in  storming  a  fort  or  selling  a  yard  of  calico.  Any- 
how, mister  —  mister — " 

"  Dadd,"  he  answered  glibly.     "  JaJnes  Dadd." 

"  Anyhow,  Sergeant  Dadd,"  she  continued,  smiling 
ever  so  faintly  at  the  odd  name,  "  I  know  men  pretty 
well.  And  I  believe  you'd  do  your  duty,  squarely  and 
honestly,  whether  it  was  in  war  or  in  a  shop." 

"  Madam,"  said  Dad,  miserably,  "  I  didn't  do  my 
duty  in  either.  And,  as  for  honesty,  I  have  been  even 
more  remiss.  Why,  I  have  just  told  a  lie  that  shames 
me  to  the  soul.  I  have  told  it  to  the  ministering  angel 
who  saved  me  from  death  or  capture  ai\d  who  has  since 
played  Good  Samaritan  to  me.  The  only  woman  in 
years  who  has  shown  me  her  sex's  divine  pity. 

"  I  have  lied  to  you  about  my  name.  It  is  not  James 
Dadd.     It  is  James  Brinton." 

He  dared  not  look  at  her,  but  spoke  rapidly,  his  eyes 
downcast,  his  fingers  foolishly  busy  with  the  torn  fringe 
of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat. 

"I  —  I  call  myself  James  Dadd,"  he  blundered  on. 

And  I  suppose  I  have  a  right  to.  For  it  doesn't 
harm  anyone,  and  it  gives  me  a  chance  to  be  in  the 
army.  They  wouldn't  take  me  under  my  own  name. 
But,  oh,  I  love  the  old  name,  and  it  makes  me  ashamed 
every  time  I  have  to  use  the  other  one.  Still,  I've  al- 
ways figured  —  till  now — -that  it's  nobody's  business. 
But  —  somehow  I  can't  lie  to  a  woman  that's  got  eyes 
like  yours." 

**  Unless  I'm  very  wrong,"  she  said,  after  a  little 


(( 


THE  ALARM  115 

breathless  silence,  "  you  aren't  given  to  telling  lies  to 
anyone  at  all,  man  or  woman,  Mr. —  Brinton.  As  for 
going  to  the  war  under  another  name,  I  can't  see  any- 
thing very  terrible  In  that.  I  take  it  you  didn't  enlist 
with  the  idea  of  cheating  folks  out  of  anything?  " 

"  No !  "  he  declared,  almost  fiercely.     "  No !  " 

And  again  silence  fell,  there  in  the  dusty,  lavender- 
scented  garret. 

Dusk  was  pushing  the  shadows  forward  from  the 
mysterious  comers  and  shoving  them  farther  and  farther 
into  the  little  window-lit  space  where  sat  the  man  and 
woman. 

At  last  Mrs.  Sessions  said : 

*'  I  s'pose  all  women  are  inquisitive." 

"  They  must  have  one  drawback  to  keep  them 
mortal,"  he  countered  with  a  brave  attempt  at  his 
earlier  tone  of  gallantry. 

"  But,"  she  went  on  impersonally,  "  why  a  fine,  up- 
standing man  like  you  should  go  to  war  under  a  silly 
name  like  Dadd,  when  he's  got  such  a  fine  name  as 
Brinton,  certainly  does  make  me  curious.  Not,"  she 
added,  In  polite  haste,  "  not  that  It's  any  of  my  busi- 
ness —  as  maybe  you  were  going  to  say." 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  he  contradicted,  "  that  any  of 
my  affairs  are  also  your  aflF'airs.  As  far  as  you  honor 
me,  ma'am,  by  making  them  so." 

"  You  say  pretty  things,"  she  laughed  In  pleased 
embarrassment.  "  I  wonder  if  a  woman  ever  gets  too 
old  to  love  to  hear  them.  Pretty  speeches  wasn't 
Ehud's  way.     But  he  always  liked  to  hear  other  men- 


lie  ''DAD'' 

folk  make  them  to  me.  It  flattered  his  judgment,  he 
used  to  say.'* 

"  I  fancy  his  judgment  used  to  get  flattered  toler- 
ably often,"  ventured  Dad.  ^ 

But  she  did  not  hear.  Her  brows  were  puckered,  and 
she  was  murmuring  his  name  in  perplexity. 

"  Brinton,"  she  mused.  "  Brinton.  It's  queer  how 
natural  that  name  seems  to  me.  Because  it  isn't  such 
a  common  name  either.  Wait  a  second  and  I  can  tell 
you  where  I  heard  it.  My  brain's  all  full  of  little 
scraps  of  things  I've  heard  and  tucked  away  there.  I'm 
rummaging  there  now,  like  fury.  Presently  I'll  find  it. 
Oh,  I  know !  "  she  broke  off. 

Then  she  stopped,  ashamed. 

"  You  remember?  "  he  asked  miserably. 

"  No,"  she  denied.  "  That  is,  I  can't  remember  but 
one  man  of  that  name.  Ehud  told  me  about  him. 
Long  ago.  And  it  made  an  impression  on  me  at  the 
time." 

"  Tell  me  about  him,"  urged  Dad. 

"  Oh,  'tisn't  a  nice  story.  Besides  there's  just  a 
bare  chance  that  maybe  he  was  some  kin  of  yours  —  the 
name  being  so  uncommon  — •  and  I'd  hate  to  hurt  your 
feelings." 

"  Go  ahead !  "  he  begged,  in  the  same  perverse  spirit 
that  had  prompted  him,  since  his  turn  of  the  conversa- 
tion, to  pursue  it  toward  the  bitter  end.  "  There  are 
many  Brintons.  I  —  I  believe  a  man  named  Brinton 
was  down  in  Mexico  during  the  war  there.  Perhaps 
that's  where  Captain  Sessions  heard  the  name.?  " 


THE  ALARM  117 

*'  That  was  the  place  and  that  was  the  man,"  she 
said.  "  Ehud  was  in  General  Scott's  army,  jou  know. 
A  captain  of  infantry.  His  regiment  was  on  duty  one 
day  at  a  celebration  —  for  some  victory  or  other  — 
and  up  rides  this  Brinton  man  disgustingly  drunk  and 
spoils  the  whole  celebration. 

"  He  insulted  General  Scott  something  terrible,  Ehud 
said.  Then  he  fell  off  his  horse  asleep,  and  they 
lugged  him  to  the  guard-house;  and  that's  the  last 
Ehud  was  ever  able  to  find  out  about  him.  They  never 
courtmartialed  the  man  or  anything.  Ehud  said  he 
guessed  Brinton  escaped  in  the  night;  the  wicked  old 
sot!  What's  the  matter,  sir?  Is  the  wound  hurting 
you  so  bad  ?  " 

"  Yes !  "  panted  Dad.  "  But  not  the  silly  scratch  on 
my  arm.     It  is  a  thousand  times  deeper." 

"  And  you  never  told  me ! "  she  cried  in  genuine 
alarm.  ^'  Here  I've  been  chatting  so  selfishly  with  you 
and  never  doing  a  thing  to  help  you !  Wait  till  I  fetch 
you  some  brandy." 

"I  —  I  don't  need  it,  thank  you,"  he  replied, ''  and  I 
never  touch  it  any  more.  I've  sworn  I  never  will.  The 
wound  I  spoke  of  is  on  my  soul ;  not  my  body.     I  — " 

^'  I  thought  all  army  men  drank  once  in  a  while. 
Shall  I  get—" 

"  No,  thank  you.  I'm  all  right  again.  I  don't  know 
that  the  majority  of  army  men  drink.  Though  a  drink 
is  a  consoler  after  a  long  day's  march,  and  it  helps 
drown  the  memory  of  the  comrade  who  was  shot  to 
pieces  at  one's  side.     But  it  is  a  consolation  that's  not 


118  "  DAD  " 

for  me.  It  consoled  me  too  often  —  till  nothing  else 
worth  while  would  trouble  to  console  me. 

"  Mrs.  Sessions,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I 
haven't  the  words  to  tell  you  how  gooji ;  and  — 

'*  And  because  of  that,  as  well  as  because  no  man 
could  lie  to  eyes  like  yours,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. Something  that  may  make  you  sorry  you've 
done  so  much  for  a  worthless  old  derelict.  Something 
that  will  surely  make  you  ashamed  that  you  honored 
him  with  the  offer  of  your  husband's  sword.  I  —  I  am 
the  James  Brinton  whose  story  Captain  Sessions  told 
you.'' 

"  Land's  sake !     You  never  are !  " 

"And  the  reason  he  heard  no  more  of  me  was  be- 
cause I  was  '  dismissed  from  the  service  I  had  degraded,' 
and  was  secretly  kicked  out  of  the  army.  And  because 
I  was  forever  kicked  out  of  it,  I  had  to  sneak  back  into 
the  service  under  a  false  name." 

**  Is  that  all?  "  she  asked,  quietly. 

"  That  is  all  —  except  to  say  good-by  and  get  out 
of  the  house  where  I've  let  myself  be  entertained  under 
false  pretenses." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke;  sick  at  heart,  and  all  at  once 
feeling  very,  very  old  and  wretched. 

He  realized  with  a  queer  pang  that  the  last  hour  had 
somehow  been  the  happiest  he  had  ever  known.  And 
by  contrast  the  future  seemed  to  stretch  away  before 
him  dreary  and  barren  as  a  rainy  sea. 

Dad  took  an  uncertain  step  toward  the  head  of  the 


THE  ALARM  119 

attic  stairs.     A  small  and  determined  figure  barred  his 
way. 

"  Go  back ! "  came  the  imperious  command.  "  Go 
right  back  where  you  were,  and  sit  down  there.  You 
may  have  said  all  you've  got  to  say.  But  /  haven't, 
by  a  long  shot." 

Dully  he  obeyed  her.  His  flesh  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  listening  to  the  merited  tongue-lashing  that 
he  felt  was  his  due.  Yet,  like  a  scared  schoolboy,  he 
recognized  and  meekly  obeyed  the  note  of  authority  in 
his  hostess's  voice. 

"  Now,  then !  "  she  said,  planting  herself  squarely  in 
front  of  him.  "  Aren't  you  ashamed.  Sergeant  James 
Brinton?  Aren't  you  ash>amed?  Tolling  me  on  like 
that  to  say  scand'lous  things  about  a  poor  man  whose 
story  I  only  half-knew.  Oh,  I'm  a  cruel,  shrewish  old 
woman  to  go  on  like  I  did  about  Brinton  —  about  you. 

"  Who  am  I  to  sit  in  judgment  on  a  poor,  weak  man 
whose  love  for  drink  overcomes  him  sometimes?  Why, 
I'm  just  every  mite  as  bad  myself.  Without  my  morn- 
ing cup  of  tea,  I'm  no  good  at  aH.  I  lean  on  it  as  men 
lean  on  whisky." 

"  But,  madam  — ^"  he  stammered. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  for  talking  like 
that,"  she  rushed  on,  unheeding.  "  And  to  tell  you  that 
no  man  who  looks  and  talks  the  way  you  do  was  ever 
a  sot  or  a  scoundrel.  Weak,  maybe.  Yes,  we  all  are. 
But  never  bad." 

"  Would  —  would  you  let  me  tell  you  ?  "  he  faltered, 


120  "  DAD  " 

gripped  by  a  sudden,  overwhelming  impulse  to  make 
this  wonderful  little  woman  his  mother  confessor  —  to 
tell  her  what  he  had  never  clearly  told  himself. 

She  nodded  eager,  kindly  assent.      j 

In  a  voice  at  first  incoherent,  almost  broken,  but  that 
soon  steadied  into  narrative  force,  Dad  told  the  whole 
pitiful  tale. 

He  did  not  strive  for  effect.  He  spared  no  needful 
detail.  He  spoke  as  though  of  a  third  person ;  calmly, 
impartially. 

When  the  story  of  his  Mexican  disgrace  was  done,  he 
went  on  to  tell  her  of  his  homecoming,  his  futile  life 
for  the  past  fourteen  years,  his  continued  degradation, 
the  sordid  surroundings,  the  unworthy  hopelessness  of 
it  all. 

Only  when  he  spoke  of  Jimmie  did  an  unconscious 
softness  and  a  thrill  of  pride  come  into  the  deep  voice. 

He  told  of  his  son's  departure  for  the  front,  the  bed- 
side talk  with  Jimmie  in  the  moonlight,  the  escape  from 
Ideala,  the  kneeling  vigil  on  the  hill-top  where  he  had 
forever  shaken  off  his  dead  self.  Of  his  later  army 
achievements  he  said  little. 

It  was  twilight  now,  all  over  the  battle  world.  The 
long  twilight  of  early  summer.  And  in  the  attic  dark- 
ness left  the  faces  of  the  man  and  woman  visible  only  as 
dim  white  rifts  in  the  gloom. 

Presently  Dad's  deep  voice  ceased.  There  was  a 
hush ;  through  which  the  far-off  throb  of  a  complaining 
whippoorwill,  from  down  in  the  bottom-lands,  by  the 
river,  came  to  their  ears. 


THE  ALARM  121 

Mrs.  Sessions  had  drawn  insensibly  closer  to  the 
speaker  as  the  story  progressed.  But  she  had  not  once 
interrupted.  Nor,  now  that  the  tale  was  done,  did  she 
speak. 

"  Now  you  know  it  all,"  he  said,  breaking  the  long 
silence,  "  And  I  suppose  you're  as  disgusted  with  me 
as  I  am  with  myself.  As  General  Scott  was  when 
I—" 

He  caught  his  breath  with  a  gasp.  Something  in 
falling  had  touched  the  back  of  his  outflung  hand. 

Something  tiny,  and  stingingly  hot  —  a  tear ! 

"  Mrs.  Sessions !  "  he  exclaimed  in  wonder. 

"I  —  I'm  not  given  to  blubbering,"  she  answered, 
choking  back  her  sobs.  "  I  didn't  know  I  was  doing 
it.     Oh,  you  poor,  poor  dear !  " 

"  You  don't  despise  me,  after  all  I've  told  you 
about  — " 

'*  Despise  you  ?  "  she  echoed,  almost  shrilly.  "  De- 
spise you?  Listen  to  me,  sergeant!  Any  man  can 
strut  around,  pompouslike,  on  the  top  of  the  mountain 
if  he  was  born  up  there  or  boosted  up  there.  But  the 
man  who  can  climb  there  —  as  you've  done  —  who  can 
climb  there  out  of  the  mire  and  muck  that  he's  been 
shoved  down  into;  that  man's  a  —  a  man!  And  the 
mud  on  his  garments  comes  pretty  close  to  looking  like 
royal  ermine. 

"  I'm  talking  like  a  schoolgirl  that  reads  novels.  But 
it's  all  true.  Sergeant  Brinton,  I'd  like  to  shake  you  by 
the  hand,  please.     I  wish  Ehud  was  here  to  do  it,  too !  " 

Dad,  even  as  he  groped  for  and  found  the  warm  and 


123  "  DAD  " 

slender  little  hand  In  the  darkness,  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  give  mental  endorsement  to  the  last  half  of  her 
wish.  He  was  quite  satisfied  that  the  late  Captain 
Ehud  should  remain  in  Paradise,  instead  of  invading 
his  earthly  home's  attic  just  then. 

The  two  hands  met  in  a  clasp  that  each  sought  to 
make  frank  and  hearty.  But  hands  are  less  docile  than 
faces  in  masking  their  heart's  mandates.  And  the  fin- 
gers that  met  so  formally  forgot  somehow  to  unclasp. 
Dad  found  the  little  woman's  hand  nestling  quite  com- 
fortably and  contentedly  in  the  big  grip  of  his  own. 
And  if  she  struggled  to  withdraw  it,  the  struggle  was 
so  very  faint  as  to  escape  the  notice  of  either  of  them. 

Dad  had  risen  to  his  feet.  Through  the  gloom  he 
was  looking  down  at  the  half-seen  figure  whose  hand 
he  held.  And  something  long,  long  dead  was  stirring 
strangely  in  his  heart  and  his  soul. 

Very  reverently  he  lifted  the  little  hand  and  laid  it 
against  his  lips;  holding  it  there  a  moment  while  the 
tender  sweetness  of  the  contact  mounted  like  music  to 
his  brain.  Reluctantly  he  unclasped  his  fingers  from 
about  their  precious  burden.  And  for  a  space  he  and 
his  hostess  stood  staring  wide-eyed  into  each  other's 
half-invisible  faces. 

Then  — 

"  If  my  daughter  could  see  me  now,"  said  Mrs.  Ses- 
sions, a  little  break  in  the  laugh  she  forced  to  her  lips, 
"  she'd  say  I  was  an  old  fool." 

"  If  my  son  could  see  me  now,"  answered  Dad,  "  he'd 
say  I  was  not  only  an  old  fool,  but  an  old  scoundrel  as 


THE  ALARM  123 

well.  But  Jimmie  wouldn't.  Jimmie  would  under- 
stand. Jimmie  always  understands.  Oh,  you  must 
meet  Jimmie ! " 

"  I'd  love  to.  I'd  love  to  be  just  like  a  mother  to  the 
boy  who's  done  so  much  for — " 

"  If  you  don't  mind,"  ventured  Dad  bashfully,  "  I'd 
a  lot  rather  you'd  be  just  like  a  —  a  grandmother  to 
him." 

Then  in  the  dark  there  —  very  simply,  like  two  little 
children,  they  kissed. 

And  on  the  instant,  the  quaint  old-world  stillness  of 
the  attic  was  split  by  the  noise  of  many  pounding  hoof- 
beats. 


1 
CHAPTER  XIV 

DAD    THE    PALADIN 

THE  ground-shell  of  the  driveway  below  resounded 
thickly  to  the  thudding  of  hard-ridden  horses. 
Then,  with  a  multifold  shuffle,  the  hoofs  came  to  a  stand- 
still. 

There  were  heavy  steps  on  the  porch.  A  hammering 
broke  out,  as  of  gunbutt  or  sword  hilt  against  the  front 
door  panels.     And  a  voice  shouted  "  Let  us  in !  " 

"  Sakes !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Sessions.  "  I'd  clean  for- 
got !     There  must  be  a  hundred  of  'em  from  the  sound." 

"  No,"  corrected  Dad,  his  practiced  ear  having  enu- 
merated the  hoof-beats.  "  Not  more  than  four  or  five, 
I  should  say.  Probably  the  men  who  chased  me  this 
morning.     They've  come  back,  as  you  said,  and  — " 

She  was  gone,  slipping  down  the  stairs  in  swift  noise- 
lessness,  closing  the  attic  stairway  door  behind  her. 

Pausing  only  long  enough  to  light  a  sconce  of  candles 
on  the  table  in  the  wide  hallway.  Mrs.  Sessions  sped 
to  the  front  door,  whence  the  clamor  had  risen  to  a 
deafening  pitch. 

Unbarring  the  door,  she  flung  it  open,  and  stood  on 
the  threshold,  a  tiny  spirit  of  wrath. 

"  What  do  you  folks  mean  ?  "  she  demanded  hotly. 
"  What  do  you  folks  mean  by  banging  all  the  varnish 


DAD  THE  PALADIN  126 

off  my  door  panels  like  that?  Couldn't  you  use  the 
brass  knocker?  What  do  you  want,  anyway;  disturb- 
ing an  old  woman,  like  this  ?  " 

Four  guerrillas  gave  back  for  an  instant  —  if  only 
for  a  bare  instant  —  before  her  indignant  outburst. 
Then  one  of  them  laughed. 

The  spell  was  broken.  Pushing  past  her,  the  quar- 
tet trooped  into  the  hallway. 

At  a  glance,  Mrs.  Sessions  could  see  they  were  tired, 
cross,  and  —  apparently  —  more  or  less  drunk.  They 
had  evidently  moistened  more  than  once  the  dry  tedium 
of  their  afternoon's  search. 

*^  You're  old  Yankee  Sessions's  widder,  I  reckon," 
said  one  of  the  four. 

"  Yes,"  she  snapped,  "  I  am.  But  I've  lived  here- 
abouts for  ten  years  without  ever  before  hearing  rude 
language  from  any  Southern  man.  No  regular  Con- 
federate soldier  would  speak  to  a  woman  that  way, 
either,  or  burst  into  her  house  without  a  '  by-your- 
leave.'  It's  you  guerrillas  that  are  the  pest  of  both 
armies.  But  you  aren't  going  to  be  the  pest  of  my 
house.     Out  you  go,  all  of  you !  " 

"  You  spitfire !  "  hiccoughed  the  camp-follower.  "  I 
wish  there  was  still  a  ducking-stool  for  scolds.  Keep 
a  civil  tongue  in  your  head  or  we'll  find  a  way  to  revive 
the  ducking." 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

«  We're  looking  for  a  runaway  Yank.  Seen  him  go 
past?" 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  so  first,  instead  of  cluttering 


126  "  DAD '' 

up  my  clean  hall  with  mud  and  kicking  the  polish  off 
my  door?  Yes,"  she  added  with  perfect  truth,  "  I  saw 
a  Yankee,  He  was  riding  lickety-split  along  the  road 
there."  1 

"  How  long  ago?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Quite  a  while  back.  He  seemed  to 
be  wounded." 

The  four  moved  excitedly  toward  the  door. 

"  I  said  so !  "  cried  one  of  the  men.  "  Just  what  I 
told  you.  He  sneaked  into  the  woods  somewhere,  and 
we  rode  past  him.     Then  he  doubled  back." 

"Wounded,  hey?"  said  another.  "My  shots  don't 
miss.  I  knew  I  winged  him.  If  we  can  get  another 
mile  or  two  of  speed  out  of  those  nags,  we  may  overhaul 
him  yet." 

Three  of  the  men  were  at  the  door.  The  fourth,  fol- 
lowing, paused  to  light  a  cheroot  by  one  of  the  candles 
on  the  table. 

As  he  was  starting  on  after  the  others,  he  came  to  a 
sudden  stop.  His  exclamation  brought  the  three  bush- 
whackers back  into  the  hall.  The  man  pointed  melo- 
dramatically at  a  little  pool  of  drying  blood  on  the  pol- 
ished hardwood  floor  in  the  full  glare  of  the  candleHght. 
Beside  the  pool  lay  a  Federal  infantry  cap. 

There  was  no  need  for  words.  The  story  told  itself. 
The  four  men  with  one  accord  turned  on  Mrs.  Sessions. 
She  had,  as  though  by  sheer  chance,  taken  up  a  po- 
sition at  the  stair  foot.  And  there  she  stood ;  magnifi- 
cently futile  and  as  futilely  magnificent  as  a  sparrow 
that  bars  a  prowling  tomcat's  way  to  her  nest. 


DAD  THE  PALADIN  127 

"  Well,"  she  demanded  shrilly,  "  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?  " 

"  Do  ?  "  laughed  the  drunkest  of  the  four.  "  Root 
him  out,  of  course.  And  you're  li'ble  to  keep  your  hair 
tidier  if  you'll  take  us  straight  off  to  where  you've  hid 
him." 

"  I've  told  you  twice  to  get  out  of  here,"  she  replied, 
not  a  faintest  trace  of  fear  in  her  authoritative  voice. 
"  And  now  I  tell  — " 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  man,  suddenly  turning  savage  at 
her  words,  "  and  your  husband,  old  Yankee  Sessions, 
told  me  to  get  out  of  his  house  once,  a  few  years  back. 
I  was  just  out  of  pen,  and  I  was  hungry.  I  stopped 
here  and  told  his  black  butler  to  rustle  me  some  grub 
and  a  little  spending-money,  or  I'd  cave  his  woolly  head 
in.     That's  the  way  to  speak  to  niggers.     And  he ' — " 

"  That's  the  way  nobody  but '  poor  white  trash  '  ever 
speaks  to  them,  down  here,"  contradicted  Mrs.  Ses- 
sions. "  I  remember  the  time.  Ehud  was  sick  abed 
with  quinsy  and  — " 

"  And  just  as  I'd  got  that  nigger  so  scared  that  he'd 
do  anything  I  told  him,"  snarled  the  bushwhacker, 
drink  and  a  sour  memory  combining  to  enrage  him, 
"  down  them  stairs  rushes  old  Yankee  Sessions,  half- 
dressed,  and  wavin'  a  sword  in  his  hand.  And  he 
kicked  me  —  yes,  kicked  rrie  —  out  of  his  house,  the 
dirty  Yank.  I  reckon  here's  where  I  square  accounts 
with  his  long-tongued  widder." 

He  lurched  to  the  stair-foot  and  caught  Mrs.  Ses- 
sions roughly  by  the  shoulder. 


128  "DAD" 

"  Show  us  where  you've  hid  the  blue-backed  cur ! " 
he  ordered.     "  Or  we'll  — " 

He  got*  no  further. 

At  his  brutal  touch  Mrs.  Sessions  had  involuntarily 
cried  out.     A  cry  of  stark  indignation,  not  of  terror. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  guerrilla's  surly  threat  she 
saw  the  unshaven  mouth  grow  speechless  and  slack ;  the 
drink-bleared  eyes  widen  in  crass  horror. 

The  unwashed  paw  fell  inert  from  her  shoulder.  The 
man  reeled  back  a  step  as  though  struck  across  the 
face.  He  was  staring  stupidly  at  the  stairway.  And 
his  fellows  had  followed  the  direction  of  his  gaze. 

All  this  in  the  fraction  of  a  second;  even  as  Mrs. 
Sessions  turned  to  note  the  cause  of  the  strange  panic. 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  upper  landing  had  sprung 
a  terrible  figure.  For  an  instant,  as  it  gathered  itself 
to  bound  down  the  broad  and  shallow  flight  of  stairs, 
it  was  vaguely  and  weirdly  outlined  by  the  uncertain 
candlelight  below. 

A  man,  towering,  fierce;  coatless  and  without  waist- 
coat. His  face  was  white  and  distorted  with  wrath. 
His  eyes  blazed  in  the  half-light  like  living  coals.  His 
gray  hair  was  a-bristle. 

Above  his  head  flashed  a  sword-blade. 
"  Yankee  Sessions !  "  croaked  the  drunken  guerrilla, 
in  babbling  fear.     "  Yankee  Sessions's  ghost !     Just  as 
he  came  at  me  that  day  when  — " 

The  man  at  the  stair-head  cleared  the  intervening 
steps   in  three  bounds.     With  a  berserk  yell  he  was 


DAD  THE  PALADIN  1^9 

among  the  guerrillas,  his  swirling  sword  giving  forth 
a  million  sparks  of  reflection  from  the  candle-glow. 

There  was  a  moment  of  wild  turmoil;  of  clashing, 
of  yells,  of  madly  stamping  feet. 

Mrs.  Sessions,  leaning  weakly  against  the  newel- 
post  of  the  banisters,  saw  an  indistinguishable  mass  of 
figures,  whirling,  jostling,  screaming;  while  once  and 
again  above  the  ruck  flashed  the  sword-blade  like  a 
tongue  of  silver  flame. 

A  cleverly  aimed  sweep  of  the  blade  as  the  knot  of 
men  swayed  bodily  toward  the  table,  and  both  candle 
sconces  were  knocked  violently  to  the  floor. 

The  sudden  darkness  was  too  much  for  the  guerrillas' 
drink-shaken  nerves.  Still  in  strong  doubt  as  to 
whether  the  hero  who  had  attacked  them  were  ghost  or 
human,  they  had  made  shift  momentarily  to  hold  their 
ground. 

But  to  cope  in  the  dark  with  a  possible  wraith  —  a 
homicidal  wraith  at  that  —  was  more  than  they  had 
bargained  for. 

Panic  —  mad  and  unreasoning  —  possessed  them. 
Behind,  an  oblong  of  lesser  gloom  through  the  black- 
ness showed  the  location  of  the  door. 

And  through  the  door  they  surged  pell-mell. 

Down  the  steps  they  rushed  and  flung  themselves 
upon  their  waiting  horses.  Out  of  the  grounds  they 
galloped  and  down  the  road. 

A  hundred  yards  farther  on  they  drew  rein  as  by  com- 
mon   consent.     But    before    they    could    bring    their 


130  "  DAD  " 

mounts  to  a  halt  the  clatter  of  hoofs  behind  them  sent 
their  scared  gaze  backward. 

By  the  pale  starlight  they  could  just  distinguish 
their  half-clad  foe  —  enormous  and  ghostly  in  the  dim 
light  —  astride  a  monster  horse,  bearing  down  on  them 
at  the  speed  of  an  express-train.  The  sword  still 
gleamed  above  his  head. 

There  was  no  pause ;  there  was  no  consultation ;  there 
was  no  impulse  to  investigate. 

Swayed  by  a  single  purpose,  the  four  guerrillas 
urged  their  tired  horses  to  a  run.  Down  the  road  they 
streamed,  their  ghostly  foe  in  close  pursuit. 

Presently  —  or,  as  it  seemed  to  them,  after  a  thou- 
sand years  of  terror-flight  —  the  foremost  of  them 
reached  the  by-road.  And,  with  the  instinct  of  a  bur- 
row-seeking rabbit,  he  wheeled  his  horse  into  it.  His 
three  comrades  followed  his  example. 

They  had  ridden  for  perhaps  a  mile  when  the  rear- 
most of  them  paused  to  make  certain  of  what  he  had 
begun  to  hope,  that  their  terrible  ghost-foe  had  ceased 
his  pursuit. 

One  by  one  the  guerrillas  drew  in  their  exhausted 
horses.  No  hoof-beats  or  any  other  sound  came. to 
them  on  the  summer  night's  still  air. 

Shamefacedly  the  men  looked  at  one  another.  Then, 
without  a  word,  they  set  off  at  a  walk  for  their  camp, 
five  miles  away. 

Dawn  was  breaking  as  Dad  rode  into  a  tent-street 
and  up  its  long,  straight  course.     At  his  side  was  a 


DAD  THE  PALADIN  131 

Union  cavalry  captain  whom  he  had  encountered  when 
the  first  sentry  and  corporal  of  the  guard  at  Hooker's 
outposts  had  halted  him. 

On  a  little  rise  of  ground,  from  which  the  streets 
of  tents  fell  away  on  every  side,  was  a  farmhouse, 
commandeered  by  Ma j  or-General  Hooker  as  tempo- 
rary headquarters.  And  into  a  front  room  of  this 
house,  five  minutes  after  his  arrival.  Dad  was  con- 
ducted. 

General  Hooker  was  picturesquely  clad  in  a  mere 
fraction  of  his  uniform  and  was  gulping  down  large 
mouthfuls  of  very  black*  and  very  hot  coffee  from  a 
tin  dipper.  In  his  other  hand  was  a  slice  of  unbuttered 
bread. 

"  Sergeant  James  Dadd,  of  the  Blankth  Ohio  Infan- 
try," announced  Dad,  saluting,  "  with  dispatches  from 
Brigadier-General " 

He  paused  in  consternation  midway  in  his  formal 
announcement. 

To  his  amaze.  General  Hooker  set  down  his  portable 
breakfast  on  a  window-sill,  gaped  in  wonder  for  an  in- 
stant at  the  courier,  then  burst  into  a  fit  of  unextin- 
guishable  laughter. 

"  The  dispatches,  sir,"  volunteered  Dad,  "  are  of  the 
utmost  importance,  so  I  was  told  by  General " 

"  Importance !  "  gasped  Hooker,  weak  with  laugh- 
ter. "  Oh,  man !  Importance?  Do  you  mean  to  say 
he  didn't  tell  you?     Didn't  you  even  guess?  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

FIGHTING    JOE 

**/^UESS?"  echoed  Dad,  returning  the  general's 

^J^  amused  gaze  with  an  expression  upon  his  own 
face  of  gross  perplexity.  "I  —  I  don't  understand, 
sir." 

General  Hooker  seemed  to  realize  that  his  habitual, 
easy  informality  toward  his  subordinates  —  for  which 
they  adored  him  and  whereon  none  had  been  known  to 
presume  —  had  gone  well-nigh  beyond  bounds. 

For  he  checked  his  laughter  and,  with  a  touch  of 
authority  in  his  big  voice,  said : 

"  Make  your  report." 

Briefly  Dad  outlined  the  orders  given  him  by  his  bri- 
gade commander,  the  adventures  he  had  undergone  on 
the  previous  day,  and  the  clever  scout  work  and  hard 
riding  which  had  marked  the  night  stage  of  his  journey. 

Hooker  listened  with  real  interest;  his  eyes,  under 
half-closed  lids,  narrowly  reading  the  speaker's  fea- 
tures. Yet  when  the  short  recital  was  finished  the 
mirth  sprang  back  unbidden  into  the  general's  tanned 
face. 

"  Sergeant  Dadd,"  he  asked  whimsically,  "  do  you 

ever  think?  " 

The  odd  question,  tenfold  more  strange  coming  from 

139 


FIGHTING  JOE  133 

a  general  officer  to  an  enlisted  man,  deepened  Dad's  be- 
wilderment. 

"Think?"  he  repeated. 

"  Yes.  Or  do  you  prefer  to  be  the  supposedly 
model  soldier  who  works  like  a  machine  and  who  leaves 
to  his  superior  officers  the  task  of  thinking?  " 

"  When  thinking  can  help,"  answered  Dad,  "  I  sup- 
pose I  do  my  share  of  it.  But  I  don't  let  it  interfere 
with  the  orders  given  me." 

"  Did  you  happen  to  think  when  you  were  told  to 
ride  across  nearly  forty  miles  of  hostile  country  with 
these  dispatches  for  me  ?  "  insisted  the  general,  the  same 
quizzical  look  in  his  half-shut  eyes. 

"  Frankly,  sir,"  returned  Dad,  "  I  did.  I  remem- 
ber that  I  thought  — " 

"Well?"  urged  Hooker  impatiently.  "Out  with 
it,  man!  If  it  wasn't  complimentary  to  anyone  in 
particular  don't  be  afraid  to  say  so." 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  answered  Dad,  "  that  if  those  docu- 
ments weren't  all-important  it  was  strange  that  a  man's 
life  or  freedom  should  be  risked  in  delivering  them. 
And  I  thought  if  they  were  all-important  there  must 
be  some  safer  and  surer  way  of  getting  them  to  you 
than  by  sending  that  same  man  through  a  region  where 
there  was  barely  one  chance  in  a  dozen  —  in  a  score 
—  of  his  being  successful  in  reaching  you." 

Hooker  nodded  approval. 

"  Good !  "  he  vouchsafed.  "  And,  wondering  that, 
you  still  did  all  in  your  power  to  win  through  safely?  " 

"  I  had  orders,  sir." 


13*  "  DAD  " 

"  And  you  set  out  to  obey  them?  Well,  sergeant, 
you  did  not  obey  them." 

"  The  envelope  — "  began  Dad. 

**  Is  here.  With  its  contents  undisturbed.  But  it 
doesn't  belong  here.  By  this  time  it  ought  to  be  in 
Jackson's  hands.  Perhaps  even  in  Lee's.  You  still 
do  not  understand  ?  " 

Dad  essayed  to  speak ;  then  hesitated. 

*'  You  set  down  your  general  for  a  fool,"  insisted 
Hooker.  "  Don't  deny  it,  man.  Well,  he  isn't  one. 
He  hit  on  a  wise  scheme.  The  scheme  he  proposed  to 
me  last  week  and  which  had  my  endorsement.  These 
papers  were  carefully  made  out  —  lists,  maps,  direc- 
tions, and  all.  For  the  exclusive  benefit  of  —  Jackson 
and  Lee. 

"  Do  some  more  thinking  for  a  moment  and  then  see 
if  you  can't  guess  the  riddle." 

Dad  had  forestalled  the  command,  Already  his 
brain  was  hot  on  a  trail  of  conjecture.  He  recalled 
what  his  general  had  said  of  the  chances  against  the 
mission's  success,  and  of  the  unaccustomed  care  that 
same  general  had  taken  in  warning  him  to  lose  liberty 
rather  than  life  should  danger  threaten. 

He  fell  to  rehearsing  what  General  Hooker  had  first 
said.     And,  bit  by  bit,  the  truth  came  to  him. 

"  You  begin  to  understand  ?  "  asked  General  Hooker, 
reading  his  every  expression. 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  returned  Dad  stiffly,  his  color  rising, 
**  that  I  am  mistaken  in  supposing  that  my  command- 
ing officer  sent  me  into  the  enemy's  country,  expecting 


FIGHTING  JOE  135 

me  to  be  captured.  He  said  the  chances  against  my 
reaching  you  were  ten  to  one,  and  even  worse.     But  — " 

'*  Ten  to  one  ?  "  mocked  Hooker.  "  A  hundred  to 
one  —  that's  how  much  worse  —  a  thousand  to  one. 
Humanly  speaking,  there  was  no  chance  that  a  Federal 
courier  —  least  of  all  a  mounted  courier  —  could  get 
through.  For  forty  miles  the  whole  country  is  alive 
with  Confederates.  A  trained  spy  might  have  hoped  to 
do  it;  yes.  In  disguise  and  on  foot  and  with  three 
days  to  make  the  trip.  But  a  mounted  man  in  uni- 
form, with  instructions  to  hurry  —  there  was  no  chance. 
Such  a  man  could  not  possibly  have  avoided  capture. 
Yet  you  did." 

"  The  dispatches,  then,  that  I  have  just  now  handed 
you  — " 

"  The  dispatches  you  just  handed  me  are  no  longer 
worth  the  paper  they're  scrawled  on.  Yet,  in  the  Con- 
federates' hands,  they  would  have  been  worth  their 
weight  in  gold  —  no,  diamonds  —  to  w«." 

"  Then  — " 

"  They  were  very  carefully  prepared  —  for  the  en- 
emy. They  are  crammed  with  vital  and  categorical 
misinformation  of  the  most  interesting  kind  as  to  our 
movements,  our  numbers,  our  disposition.  It  is  an  old 
trick.  But  the  papers  were  so  carefully  prepared  that, 
carried  by  a  palpably  honest  man — " 

"  I  see,  sir,"  broke  in  Dad,  a  wave  of  honest  hot  wrath 
driving  all  thought  of  discipline  momentarily  from  his 
brain.  "  And  I  was  the  dupe.  The  honest  fool  who 
would  make  a  blundering  effort  to  get  through  to  you 


136  "  DAD '' 

and  would  honestly  and  vehemently  resist  capture;  so 
that  on  my  dead  or  captured  body  the  false  information 
would  be  found.     I  catch  the  idea." 

"  A  soldier's  duty,"  began  Hooker,  '^  is  to  — " 

"  Is  to  obey  orders.  And  in  a  war  like  this  most  sol- 
diers enlisted  prepared  to  throw  away  their  lives 
blithely  for  their  endangered  country. 

"  I  am  no  exception.  If  my  commanding  ofBcer  had 
told  me  what  I  was  expected  to  do  those  documents 
would  be  in  General  Jackson's  camp  now,  and  I  would 
be  on  my  way  to  the  hell  of  a  Southern  war-prison. 
I  am  not  indignant  at  being  used  in  this  way  for  the 
good  of  my  country,  nor  even  at  being  used  as  a  cats- 
paw.  But  I  am  indignant  at  failing  to  serve  the  cause 
through  my  very  effort  to  succeed  in  doing  it. 

"  If  I  have  spoken  too  freely  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir. 
But,  if  I  may  suggest  it,  it  would  be  better  another  time 
to  tell  me  frankly  what  I  am  supposed  to  do,  or  else 
to  choose  some  less  zealous  man  as  dupe." 

Hooker,  no  whit  offended  by  his  subordinate's  un- 
usual language,  listened  patiently  to  the  close  of  the 
angered  outburst. 

"What  is  that  for?"  he  asked  as  Dad  paused  for 
breath. 

And  as  he  asked  he  pointed  toward  the  courier's  left 
hip.  Dad  glanced  down,  following  the  direction  of  the 
inquiring  gesture. 

Thrust  through  his  belt  was  the  naked  sword  Mrs. 
Sessions  had  given  him.  Vaguely  he  remembered  plac- 
ing it  there  for  safe  keeping  and  to  have  it  out  of  his 


FIGHTING  JOE  137 

way,  as  he  had  ridden  on  after  the  four  fleeing  guerrillas 
had  galloped  up  the  by-way.  In  the  night's  stirring 
perils  and  need  for  eternal  watchfulness  he  had  forgot- 
ten it. 

Now,  blushing  like  a  schoolboy  —  his  keen  soldier- 
sense  horrified  by  so  glaring  an  error  in  his  equipment 

—  more  chagrined  at  the  unpardonable  lapse  than  had 
he  been  caught  going  barefoot  to  a  Presidential  review 

—  shame  swallowed  his  former  resentment. 

"I  —  I  apologize,  sir,"  he  said  contritely,  "  for  ap- 
pearing in  your  presence  wearing  a  commissioned  of- 
ficer's sword." 

"  Where  did  you  happen  on  It  ?  " 

^'  I  lost  my  revolver.  The  sword  was  —  was  given 
me  for  self-defense  at  a  house  where  I  hid  when  guerril- 
las were  after  me.  I  used  it  in  getting  away  again ; 
then  stuck  it  in  my  belt  in  case  I  should  be  attacked  in 
close  quarters  at  some  time  during  the  night." 

"  You  need  not  apologize  to  me  or  to  anyone,"  said 
Hooker  slowly,  ^'  from  this  time  on,  for  wearing  a  com- 
missioned officer's  sword.  Your  commission  as  first 
lieutenant  of  infantry  will  be  signed  by  President  Lin- 
coln as  soon  as  my  next  courier  goes  to  him.  In  the 
meantime  you  are  an  acting-lieutenant. 

*^  Keep  the  sword.  I  wish  all  newly  commissioned 
officers  had  as  good  a  right  to  one  as  you  have  just 
shown  yourself  to  possess." 

Dad's  head  swam.  He  tried  to  stammer  out  halting 
phrases  of  gratitude.  Hooker  cut  him  short  with  an- 
other brusk  laugh. 


138  "  DAD  " 

"  If  we  played  a  trick  and  you  were  chosen  as  the 
eatspaw,"  said  he,  "  you'll  at  least  bear  witness  that  I 
know  how  to  reward  a  eatspaw  whose  claws  are  as  alert 
as  yours.  Go  across  to  the  staff  m^ss  and  get  some 
breakfast.  Then  take  a  few  hours  of  sleep.  You  look 
as  if  you  could  make  use  of  it." 

Dad  saluted  with  the  sword  he  had  drawn  and  turned 
to  go.  Hooker  recalled  him  as  he  reached  the  threshold 
of  the  tent  door. 

"  Lieutenant  Dadd,"  he  said  inquisitively,  "  do  you 
chance  to  have  been  at  the  Point.?  " 

"  No,  sir.     I  am  not  a  West  Point  man." 

"  Were  you  ever  an  officer  in  the  army  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  find  the  name,  '  James  Dadd,'  on  any 
army  list,  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  answered  the  new-made 
lieutenant,  shaking  inwardly, 

"H'm!"  mused  Hooker.  "Probably  not.  Prob- 
ably not.  It's  no  affair  of  mine  or  of  anyone's.  But 
don't  deny  it  too  strenuously  to  other  people  who  may 
ask  you  —  or,  rather,  if  you  don't  want  them  to  ask 
you,  don't  draw  a  sword  and  salute  with  it  as  if  you 
had  handled  such  weapons  for  years, 

"  Infantry  privates  do  not  carry  swords.  And  when 
the}^  are  first  promoted,  they  don't  handle  them  as  you 
do.     That  is  all.     Good-by,  Lieutenant  —  Dadd." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    CHICKAHOMINY 

A  BOGGY,   tree-strewn   stretch  of  lowlands   where 
whitish  mists  hung  thick  at  dawn  and  whence  mi- 
asma vapors  rose  under  the  broiling  sun  of  midday. 

A  delightful  place  for  duck  and  quail  shooting  in 
midwinter.  In  summer  a  rank  plague  spot  —  and  in- 
cidentally, on  this  particular  summer  of  186S,  the  camp- 
ing ground  of  the  army  of  the  Potomac.  The  malarial 
region  whose  name,  even  to-day,  sends  a  shudder  along 
the  bent  spine  of  many  an  oldster. 

Chickahominy  Swamp. 

For  months  Major-General  McClellan,  commander 
of  the  army  of  the  Potomac,  had  pursued  his  fated 
peninsula  campaign.  Along  the  peninsula  in  early 
spring  he  had  marched  his  mighty  army  to  the  speedy 
capture  of  Richmond. 

Battles  were  lost;  battles  were  won.  Chances  were 
lost ;  chances  were  blindly  thrown  away. 

More  than  once  the  spires  of  Richmond  were  in  plain 
view  to  the  grim,  tired  men  of  the  ranks.  On  one  occa- 
sion, had  they  been  allowed  to  press  their  advantage, 
they  could  have  charged  into  the  Confederate  capital's 
streets  at  the  heels  of  a  lesser  body  of  foes  who  were  in 
headlong  flight. 

139 


140  "  DAD  " 

But  that  one  golden  chance  had  been  lost  through 
official  hesitation ;  and  it  could  never  come  again. 

For  Lee  and  Jackson,  by  massing  their  scattered 
forces,  rendered  the  city  impregnable.  ^  Whenever  fresh 
danger  seemed  to  threaten  Richmond,  Lee  made  a  dem- 
onstration toward  Washington,  which  caused  a  rush- 
ing of  Federal  regiments  to  repel  the  supposed  danger 
and  rendered  a  mass  attack  on  Richmond  out  of  the 
question. 

So,  through  a  terrible  summer  of  non-achievement, 
the  once  redoubtable  army  of  the  Potomac  lay  for  the 
most  part  in  Chickahominy  Swamp.  Lay  there  and 
rotted. 

Pestilence  did  not  "  stalk  "  through  the  camps.  It 
swept  through  them  like  the  lightning  breath  of  the 
death-angel. 

To  one  man  who  died  in  battle  four  died  of  disease. 
A  locality  that  even  the  heat-hardened  Virginians  were 
wont  to  shun  in  summer,  Chickahominy  Swamp  exacted 
horrible  toll  of  lives  from  the  Northern  invaders. 

Thus  rested,  wearily  inactive,  the  army  that  was  the 
hope  and  pride  of  the  Union.  And  at  every  turn  Lee 
and  Jackson  outgeneraled  its  leaders;  the  Confederate 
force  opposing  to  the  ill-led  Northerners'  greater  bulk 
a  speed  and  deftness  that  paralyzed  its  foe. 

So  that  at  last  the  North,  which  had  so  excitedly 
shouted  "  On  to  Richmond!  "  beheld  in  growing  amaze 
the  reverses  of  its  bravest  sons,  and  clamored  vainly  for 
a  change.     From  Washington,  too,  came  first  protests. 


THE  CHICKAHOMINY  141 

then  rebukes,  then  an  imperative  command  that  the 
peninsula  campaign  be  brought  to  an  end  and  the  army 
of  the  Potomac  remove  from  the  Chickahominy  pest- 
hole. 

Back  from  the  swamp  and  to  less  fatal  ground,  far- 
ther away  from  the  lost  goal  of  its  ambition,  the  huge 
army  was  withdrawn,  the  Confederates  working  havoc 
upon  their  retreating  foes. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  flank  attacks  —  a  mere  flea- 
bite  for  the  main  body  of  the  army,  but  as  vital  as 
Gettysburg  itself  to  the  army  corps  directly  concerned 
in  it  —  that  Lieutenant  James  Dadd  won  his  captaincy 
for  gallant  conduct  in  the  face  of  the  enemy. 

A  week  later  the  demi-corps  to  which  his  regiment 
was  attached  chanced  to  be  far  to  the  left  of  the  massed 
army  on  special  detail,  and  was  returning  to  headquar- 
ters. 

The  regiments,  marching  in  close  formation,  were  as- 
cending the  long,  gradual  slope  of  an  almost  intermina- 
ble hill  when  their  videttes  appeared  over  the  summit, 
riding  back  like  mad,  while  at  almost  the  same  moment 
from  a  wood  to  their  left,  and  slightly  to  their  rear, 
broke  out  an  irregular  line  of  white  smoke. 

A  masked  battery  in  the  forest,  supported  by  several 
regiments  of  Confederate  riflemen,  had  opened  fire  on* 
them. 

Before  the  nearest  Federal  ranks  could  wheel  to  repel 
the  attack  the  flying  videttes  from  in  front  reported  a 
large  body  of  Confederates  who  had  somehow  gotten  be- 


142  "  DAD  " 

tween  the  detachment  and  the  main  army,  and  were  ap- 
proaching at  the  "  double  "  from  the  far  side  of  the  hill 
up  which  the  line  of  march  led. 

Even  the  Federal  corps  commander  -1—  a  political  ap- 
pointee with  three  months'  actual  military  experience  — 
saw  the  gravity  of  the  position.  Cut  off  from  in  front 
and  attacked  on  the  left  flank,  they  might  well  be  cap- 
tured as  had  been  more  than  one  equally  large  body  of 
Federals  during  the  calamitous  year. 

And  on  realizing  that  fact  the  newly  appointed  corps 
commander,  who  was  still  weak  in  nerve  and  body  from 
a  touch  of  swamp-fever,  proceeded  to  lose  his  head. 

Regardless  of  the  presumably  greater  danger  that 
was  approaching  from  behind  the  far-off^  hilltop  to  the 
front,  he  noted  only  the  more  palpable  peril  in  that 
booming  cannonade  and  rifle-fire  from  the  wood  to  the 
left.  Being  only  a  temporary  fool  and  not  a  coward, 
he  stuttered  to  his  aids  a  series  of  orders  that  sent  fully 
half  his  attenuated  corps  swinging  leftward  in  close- 
formation  attack  on  the  forest. 

Fully  twelve  hundred  yards  of  open  country  lay  be- 
tween the  wood-edge  and  the  Federal  line. 

To  charge  a  seen  foe  is  one  thing;  to  attack  an  in- 
visible enemy  who  is  ensconced  in  unknown  numbers  be- 
hind a  screen  of  leaves  is  quite  another.  And  this  the 
advancing  line  promptly  realized. 

The  order  to  charge  was  given.  Across  the  field  of 
fresh-cut  rye-stubble  started  the  Federals. 

(A  charge,  in  a  picture-book,  is  an  inspiring  sight. 
In  real  life  it  consists  of  various  blocks  and  lines  and 


THE  CHICKAHOMINY  14?3 

other  formations  of  uniformed  pawns  moving  awk- 
wardly and  with  exasperating  slowness,  all  in  one  direc- 
tion, athwart  the  vast  checker-board.  A  retreat  is  far 
more  picturesque  and  less  geometrical.) 

Advancing  by  order,  in  close  alignment,  the  blue- 
clad  men  offered  a  mark  not  to  be  missed.  A  near- 
sighted child  in  the  thick  wood-fringe  could  scarce  have 
failed  to  wreak  vengeance  in  their  ranks. 

The  whole  edge  of  the  forest  was  white  now  with 
belching  smoke  from  which  spat  jets  of  yellow  and  red 
fire.  Solid  shot,  grape  and  rifle-fire  tore  grotesque 
gaps  in  the  oncoming  ranks. 

With  no  opportunity  to  avenge  their  losses  or  even 
to  see  their  slayers,  the  Federals  plunged  onward. 

First  at  the  double  they  moved,  their  officers  trotting, 
sword  in  hand,  at  the  side  of  the  companies,  barking 
sharp  commands  and  closing  as  well  as  might  be  each 
new  and  ugly  rent  in  the  lines.  Then  the  orderly, 
rhythmic  run  grew  shambling. 

One  man  in  a  regiment's  front  rank  wheeled  and  tried 
to  bolt  back  —  anywhere  out  of  reach  of  the  whizzing, 
crashing,  viewless  death  that  was  striking  down  his 
companions  at  every  step. 

A  lieutenant  struck  the  coward  across  the  face  with 
the  flat  of  his  sword  and  howled  curses  at  him,  striving 
to  beat  him  back  to  his  duty. 

But  by  this  time  another  man,  and  yet  other  men, 
had  followed  the  panic  example.  Here  and  there,  from 
the  chokingly  tight  front  rank,  men  had  begun  to  drop 
out,  or  to  plunge  back  into  the  line  just  behind  them, 


144  "  DAD  " 

throwing  out  of  gear  the  exactness  of  company  forma- 
tions, infecting  hundreds  with  their  terror. 

It  was  no  longer  possible  for  officers  to  check  indi- 
vidual cases  of  fear.  Their  whole  attention  was  taken 
up  in  keeping  the  bulk  of  their  men  in  line  and  in  keep- 
ing them  advancing. 

The  dead  strewed  the  stubble  ground  in  windrows. 
The  fire-streaked  smoke  rolled  out  in  a  blinding,  acrid 
wave  from  the  nearing  fringe  of  trees. 

And  at  every  yard  of  distance  gained  the  Confederate 
volleys  waxed  more  and  more  accurate,  the  piles  of 
dead  higher  and  thicker. 

Unscathed,  the  wood's  defenders  were  killing  by 
wholesale.  And  a  corps  commander's  folly  was  paid 
for  in  the  lives  of  hundreds  of  better,  wiser,  braver  men 
than  himself. 

A  riderless  horse,  his  back  broken  by  a  grapeshot, 
crawled  along  the  space  betAveeii  the  Federals  and  the 
wood,  dragging  his  hind  legs  behind  bim  and  screaming 
hideously  above  the  near-by  din. 

A  major,  sword  in  hand,  running  ten  yards  in  ad- 
vance of  his  regiment  and  hallooing  to  them  to  come  on, 
stopped  abruptly,  his  brown  face  turning  suddenly  to  a 
mask  of  blood,  and  fell  where  he  stood. 

He  was  major  in  Dad's  regiment. 

And  Dad  himself,  as  the  men  wavered  on  seeing  their 
loved  officer  fall,  leaped  forward,  sword  aloft,  to  take 
the  dead  man's  place  ahead  of  the  line. 

His  lean  body  tense,  his  mild  eyes  aflame,  the  sword 
of  old  Ehud  Sessions  whirling  in  wild  encouragement 


THE  CHICKAHOMINY  145 

above  his  bared  head.  Captain  James  Dadd  charged  on- 
ward, yelling  to  his  men  to  follow.  And  not  only  his 
own  company,  but  the  whole  regiment,  obeyed  that  call. 

For  another  fifty  yards  the  Federal  line  —  now  ir- 
regular as  a  snake-fence  —  plunged  forward ;  Dad's 
regiment,  the  Blankth  Ohio  Infantry,  forming  its  fore- 
most point. 

But  flesh  and  blood  could  not  stand  the  increasingly 
galling  fire  from  the  forest.  Mortal  nerves  were  not 
proof  against  the  horrible  strain  of  advancing  to  be 
struck  down  by  the  invisible,  with  no  chance  to  strike  a 
single  return  blow. 

To  have  halted,  if  only  once,  and  to  have  fired  a 
chance  volley,  even  ineff^ective,  or  its  efi^ect  unseen,  into 
the  trees  and  underbrush  whence  poured  that  hail  of 
death,  would  have  been  infinite  relief. 

But  the  officers  had  had  their  orders  from  the  chat- 
tering corps  commander.  And  those  orders  were  to  ad- 
vance at  the  double  and  to  continue  to  advance  until 
the  Federal  line  should  come  to  grips  with  the  foe. 

Despite  the  frenzied  exertions  of  their  officers,  the 
men  began  to  lag.  The  trot  slacked  to  a  walk.  The 
walk  to  an  almost  general  and  very  wavering  halt. 

Dad,  hoarse  and  exhausted,  knew  that  the  next  move 
would  be  a  cave-in  of  the  demoralized  line,  then  a  retreat 
that  would  change  to  panic  flight  and  a  universal  hurl- 
ing away  of  rifles  and  knapsacks.  Moreover,  that  sol- 
diers who  once  allowed  themselves  to  flee  in  that  fashion 
would  never  again  be  the  same  men. 

Their  usefulness  in  war  would  be  impaired  by  full 


146  "  DAD  " 

fifty  per  cent.,  even  as  a  horse  that  once  has  run  away 
IS  no  longer  to  be  trusted. 

The  old  man  redoubled  his  furious  efforts  to  rally 
his  regiment  and  to  force  it  onward  to  the  charge.  The 
whole  crooked  line  had  halted. 

It  was  wavering  like  the  tail  of  a  kite.  Presently  it 
must  snap. 

Then  —  from  nowhere  in  particular  —  from  the 
skies,  some  vowed  afterward  —  came  a  diversion. 

Down  the  field,  in  a  line  parallel  to  the  woods,  and  a 
dozen  rods  in  front  of  the  wavering  Federal  line,  gal- 
loped a  gun-carriage  horse,  its  harness  flapping  and  fly- 
ing about  its  flashing  hoofs. 

Astride  the  barebacked  horse  was  a  small  and  mar- 
velous figure.  The  figure  of  a  short  and  stocky  boy, 
fiery  red  of  hair,  his  powder-blacked  face  freckled,  his 
little  eyes  glaring.  He  was  clad  in  the  obviously 
chopped-down  uniform  of  an  artilleryman. 

On  his  back,  suspended  by  a  strap  that  was  fastened 
around  his  neck,  bounced  and  rattled  an  enormous 
drum.  In  the  boy's  trouser  waistband  were  stuck  two 
drumsticks. 

The  lad  was  kicking  vehemently  with  his  heels  at  his 
horse's  stomach.  But  as  he  came  midway  adown  the 
Federal  line  he  jerked  his  mount  to  a  halt,  slid  to  earth 
and,  in  the  same  gesture,  unslung  his  drum. 

He  had  halted  not  twenty  feet  from  Dad. 

"  Now,  then,"  shrilled  the  boy,  his  harsh  young  voice 
ringing  out  like  a  trumpet-call,  "  what're  you  long- 


THE  CHICKAHOMINY  147 

legged  loafers  waiting  for?  Hey?  Charge,  you 
chumps !     Charge !  " 

He  faced  the  woods.  His  drum  rolled  out  a  deafen- 
ing tattoo. 

"  Battle  Jimmie !  "  shouted  someone  in  the  ranks. 

"  Jimmie !  "  echoed  Dad.  "  Jimmie !  Oh,  it's  my 
boy!" 

"  Charge!  "  shrilled  Jimmie,  his  drum  seconding  the 
fiery  command. 

And  they  charged. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THERE  IS  a  baffling  yet  no  less  true  psychological 
element  in  man  which,  after  he  has  come  to  the 
uttermost  limit  of  his  powers,  enables  him  to  keep  on 
past  all  seemingly  possible  bounds. 

The  Federal  line,  that  had  sagged  and  wavered  and 
was  on  the  brink  of  retreat,  forgot  momentarily  its 
panic  impulse;  forgot  the  flying  death  that  bit  deep 
into  its  very  vitals ;  forgot  all  save  the  fact  that  an  ab- 
surd-looking little  boy  was  advancing  —  fearlessly, 
gayly  —  where  they,  grown  men,  had  faltered  and 
feared  to  go. 

The  mad  roll  of  the  drum,  the  treble  shout  of 
"  Charge ! "  the  spectacle  of  a  youngster  berating  mid- 
dle-aged veterans  as  though  they  were  bad  nursery 
children  —  all  this  infected  the  line  with  a  queer,  half- 
hysterical  impetus. 

Someone  laughed  aloud.  The  laugh  ran  along  the 
ranks  in  every  cadence  of  surprised  mirth.  Dad  and 
a  score  of  other  officers  caught  up  the  word  "  Charge !  " 

Irregularly,  in  shockingly  bad  formation,  staggering 

like   drunkards  —  yet    staggering  forward  —  the   men 

got  into  motion. 

148 


"BATTLE  JIMMIE"  149 

Now  they  were  on  the  run,  a  laughing,  swearing, 
wholly  unafraid  mob. 

Following  close  behind  the  boy  they  made  for  the 
forest  death-trap  —  the  trap  they  no  longer  feared. 

Fast  as  they  ran,  two  figures  were  ever  in  advance  of 
them:  Major  James  Dadd,  and,  close  at  his  side,  "  Bat- 
tle Jimmie." 

No  word  did  either  of  the  two  speak  to  the  other  — 
there  was  no  space  for  words  —  and  Jimmie  had  not  so 
much  as  seen  his  grandfather.  Yet  Dad,  after  that  one 
gasp  of  recognition,  had  pressed  as  close  as  possible 
to  the  lad  and,  in  a  daze  of  dread  and  incredulous  de- 
light, was  charging  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him. 

The  Federals  crashed  pell-mell  into  the  forest  edge. 
There  was  a  long  minute  of  turmoil,  of  blind  hand-to- 
hand  fighting  with  gray-clad  foes,  who  had  all  at  once 
for  the  first  time  become  visible. 

Behind  the  first  thick  line  of  chinkapin  and  hazel  un- 
derbrush at  the  forest  fringe  twisted  a  somewhat  rotted, 
but  still  formidable,  snake-fence.  Behind  this  excellent 
double  barrier  —  the  tree  foliage  dropping  to  beneath 
the  tops  of  the  bushes  —  were  three  howitzer  batteries 
and  a  number  of  detached  pieces  of  light  artillery. 

This  armament  was  reenforced  by  one  of  the  new- 
fangled "  mountain  batteries  "  and  a  vast,  unwieldy 
swivel-gun  (part  of  the  Norfolk  navy-yard  loot). 

Apart  from  the  guns  and  their  crews,  a  scant  two 
thousand  Confederate  infantrymen,  chiefly  made  up  of 
such  marksmen  as  at  that  day  were  found  only  south 
of  the  Mason-Dixon  line,  comprised  the  forest  defense. 


150  "  DAD '' 

By  the  well-established  tactical  rule  that 
may  defend  what  four  men  cannot  storm,"  the  odds  were 
comfortably  in  the  Southerners'  favor.  These  odds 
and  their  own  invisibility  had  rendered  their  flank  at- 
tack on  the  Federal  demi-corps  an  all  but  absolute  suc- 
cess. 

But  for  the  unforeseen  effect  that  one  red-haired 
child  had  had  upon  the  charging-line,  the  Federals 
would  even  now  have  been  reeling  back  upon  their  main 
body  and  helping  still  further  to  render  that  body  help- 
less against  the  impending  attack  from  the  larger  Con- 
federate force  that  had  not  yet  breasted  the  hill.  As 
it  was  — 

Through  natural  hedge  and  through  rotting  snake- 
fence  crashed  the  charging  Yankees.  In  a  shouting, 
laughing,  cheering  mass  they  flung  themselves,  bayo- 
neted guns  leveled,  upon  their  gray  foes. 

All  at  once  the  wood  that  had  been  so  murderously 
easy  for  the  Confederates  to  hold  against  their  charg- 
ing enemies  grew  too  hot  to  contain  them. 

Back  against  the  batteries  the  infantrymen  were 
driven.  Around  the  guns  —  and  chiefly  around  the 
giant  swivel  —  swirled  the  fight  in  tangled  blue-gray  ed- 
dies. 

The  man  who  shoots  from  behind  a  tree  is  as  terrible 
as  fate  —  so  long  as  he  remains  behind  his  tree  and  his 
opponent  is  in  the  open.  Once  routed  out  of  his  shelter, 
he  is  but  a  mortal. 

And  these  erstwhile  terrifying  Confederates,  seen  now 


"  BATTLE  JIMMIE  "  151 

at  close  range,  were  mere  humans  —  and  humans  who 
were  on  the  ragged  edge  of  retreat. 

Jimmie,  drum  slung  momentarily  behind  him,  had 
gone  through  the  thicket  like  a  woodchuck.  He  struck 
the  fence,  taller  than  his  own  head,  and  swarmed  up  its 
irregular  side. 

As  he  reached  the  top  Dad  vaulted  the  barrier  and 
gained  the  far  side,  turning  to  help  the  boy  down.  Just 
then  the  charging  men  who  followed  them  collided  with 
the  fence,  and  it  went  to  matchwood  under  their  rush. 

Jimmie  was  sent  sprawling  through  the  air,  and 
landed  breathless  against  the  bole  of  a  live-oak.  Dad 
lifted  the  gasping  boy  to  his  feet. 

Not  noticing  who  had  done  him  this  service,  nor  in- 
deed that  it  had  been  done,  Jimmie  with  a  single  gesture 
twisted  the  drum  forward,  and,  running  at  full  speed 
to  regain  his  lead  over  the  others,  set  the  drum-sticks 
flying  with  unimpaired  ardor  to  their  noisy  task  again. 

But  in  the  inferno  of  noise,  here  among  the  roaring 
big  guns,  where  the  hand-to-hand  fighting  was,  and 
where  the  arching  foliage  acted  as  a  sounding-board, 
the  drum's  babel  went  almost  unheard. 

Its  work  was  done.  The  fire  it  had  kindled  needed 
now  no  fuel. 

Dad  still  close  at  his  side,  Jimmie  plunged  on  through 
the  biting  smoke-whirl.  Out  of  the  blinding  reek  just 
in  front  towered  a  Virginia  rifleman,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  his  rifle  clubbed. 

Glimpsing  the   blue   of   Jimmie's   uniform,  the   man 


152  "  DAD  " 

aimed  his  clubbed  gun  for  the  lad's  head,  doubtless  ig- 
norant in  that  haze  and  confusion  that  it  was  a  boy 
and  not  a  man  at  whom  he  smote. 

Up  whirled  the  gunbutt.  * 

Jimmie,  his  eyes  straight  ahead,  did  not  see  the  peril. 
But  Dad,  his  eyes  everywhere,  saw  it. 

Saw  and  forestalled  it.  Before  the  impending  blow 
could  fall  his  sword  had  flashed  with  the  speed  of  light, 
and  into  the  rifleman's  bare  throat  the  point  bit  deep 
and  far. 

The  Virginian  reeled  back  into  the  smoke-drift,  his 
rifle  clattering  harmless  to  earth.  Jimmie,  blissfully 
excited,  unaware  of  the  danger  averted  from  him, 
was  running  onward  as  fast  as  his  stocky  legs  could 
move. 

For  now,  just  in  front,  the  fight  was  surging  about 
one  huge  pivot  —  a  point  whose  center  was  the  great 
swivel-gun. 

Around  this  well-nigh  priceless  bit  of  war  treasure 
—  which,  by  the  way,  had  no  place  in  such  an  engage- 
ment —  the  Confederates  rallied  for  their  final  stand. 

Ten  gunners  wheeled  its  black  muzzle  into  play,  but 
before  a  shot  could  be  fired  the  Federals  were  upon 
them. 

Then  it  was  hand-to-hand  work,  with  no  scope  for 
solid  shot  or  other  artillery  advantage. 

Into  the  melee  plunged  Battle  Jimmie,  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  the  man  to  whose  presence  he  was  still 
oblivious. 

There  was  a  confused  second  of  tight-packed,  grind- 


"BATTLE  JIMMIE"  168 

ing,  breathless  strife.  Then  in  an  instant  the  gray 
fighters  fled  —  fled  in  every  direction,  leaving  the  gun 
and  the  rest  of  their  artillery. 

After  them  through  the  shadowy  tree-aisles,  gray 
with  smoke-clouds,  rushed  their  Northern  pursuers. 

Dad  gripped  the  fast-following  Jimmie  by  the  shoul- 
der, bringing  the  indignant  youngster  to  a  very  sudden 
and  fruitlessly  wriggling  halt. 

"  Leggo !  "  snapped  Jimmie,  his  war-lust  at  full  flood. 
"  Leggo,  you  old  fool !  They're  needing  me  out  in 
front  there ;  can't  you  see  — " 

"  They're  needing  you  —  and  themselves  a  lot  more 
right  here!  "  panted  Dad,  his  voice  hoarse  and  spent 
with  the  battle.     "  Sound  the  recall !  " 

"What.?  "  yelled  Jimmie  in  the  unbelieving  tone  of  a 
soldier  who  is  ordered  to  retreat  even  before  the  first 
volley  has  been  fired. 

"  Sound  the  recall !  "  repeated  Dad.  "  Sound  it, 
quick!  My  voice  is  gone,  and  they're  plumb  crazy! 
They're  liable  to  run  into  an  ambuscade  beyond  there 
and  lose  all  we've  gained.     Sound  the  recall  I  " 

"  The  recall,"  sneered  Jimmie  insolently  as  he  strove 
in  vain  to  tug  free  from  the  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  is 
the  one  piece  of  war-music  I've  never  took  the  trouble 
to  learn,  nor  wanted  to,  neither." 

"  Jimmie  Brinton,"  declaimed  Dad  in  a  terribly  sol- 
emn and  awe-compelling  rumble,  "  I've  never  laid  hand 
to  you  in  my  life,  and  I  hoped  I'd  never  have  to.  But 
unless  you  sound  the  recall,  and  sound  it  loud  enough 
to  bring  those  lunatics  back  here  on  the  double  —  why, 


164  "  DAD '' 

I'm  going  to  take  you  over  my  knee  right  here  and  now 
and—'' 

"  Dad !  "  screamed  Jimmie,  the  smoke-mists  gouged 
out  of  his  eyes  and  his  gaze  for  th^  first  time  resting 
on  the  stem,  loving  old  face  above  him. 

"  Dad ! "  he  repeated,  his  short  arms  clasping  the 
veteran  convulsively  about  the  waist.  "  Oh,  Dad,  it's 
—  it's  —  you!  " 

"Jimmie,  dear  lad,"  broke  in  his  grandfather,  "joy 
can  wait,  but  trouble  can't.     Sound  that  recall  1 " 

Jimmie  snatched  up  his  drum. 

"  I'd  play  ^  Dixie  '  or  the  *  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  '  if  you 
ordered  it,"  he  said  adoringly,  and  the  roll  of  the  "  Re- 
call "  cracked  out. 

Again  and  again  he  played  it  until  the  pursuing  Fed- 
erals heard  it  and  obeyed;  halted  and  turned  back  to 
their  duty. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


MEANTIME,  Dad  was  saying  to  his  grandson: 
"  Maybe  you  think  we've  won  a  little  victory. 
We  have.  Maybe  you  think  the  retreat  of  those  Con- 
feds  was  our  victory.  It  wasn't.  The  victory  was  our 
getting  these  guns  of  theirs,  especially  that  big  swivel- 
gun. 

"  If  we  can  save  every  cannon  used  here  and  get  them 
all  safe  back  to  our  own  lines,  that'll  spell  victory.  Not 
the  fact  that  one  crowd  made  another  crowd  run  away. 

"  In  war  the  victor  isn't  the  fellow  who  chases  the 
other  fellow.  He's  the  man  who  is  able  to  grab  the 
weapons  and  provisions  and  ammunition  that  make  the 
other  fellow  dangerous.  We  can't  buy  batteries  and 
guns  like  these  for  less  than  a  fortune,  and  the  Confed- 
erates can't  replace  them  at  any  price. 

"  That's  how  we  harm  them  more  than  if  we  killed 
fifty  thousand  of  them.  That's  why  I  told  you  to  sound 
the  recall." 

"I  —  I  see,"  admitted  Jimmie  shamefacedly. 
"  They're  beginning  to  come  back  now.  Gee,  if  a 
party  of  Confeds  had  flanked  us  and  run  off  the  guns 
while  I  was  refusing  to  sound  the  recall,  I'd  'a'  wanted 
to  shoot  myself." 

155 


156  "DAD'' 

"  That's  all  right,  sonny.  A  man  often  has  to  stop 
to  rfevise  his  list  of  the  world's  great  men  and  give  him- 
self a  lower  place  in  it.  It's  lucky  for  him  if  his  blun- 
der's no  worse  than  yours  in  telling  ah  old  fool  — " 

"  Dad !  You  know  blamed  well.  I'd  'a'  bit  my 
tongue  out  sooner'n  have  called  you  that  if  I'd  known 
it  was  you  had  a  hold  of  me." 

"  No  hard  feelings,  son.  No  hard  feelings  ever  be- 
tween you  and  me.  Only  —  you  saw  I  was  old.  I  was 
fairly  certain  to  be  someone's  dad  or  granddad.  Some- 
one wouldn't  relish  hearing  his  dad  or  granddad  called 
an  *  old  fool '  any  more  than  you  would.  Maybe  it'd 
be  well  to  remember  that." 

"I  —  I  understand.  I'm  sorry.  Oh,  Dad,  it's  gor- 
geous to  be  with  you  again.  I've  asked  and  I've  looked 
and  I've  even  — " 

"  One  second,  Jimmie !  " 

Dad  turned  on  the  foremost  group  of  the  returning 
Federals.  Briefly  and  clearly  he  issued  a  series  of  or- 
ders. Then  to  a  similar  approaching  group  and  to  a 
third  and  to  a  fourth.  Soon  the  former  fighting  line 
was  swarming  with  men  at  work  over  the  captured  guns. 
Without  waiting  further,  Dad  sprang  astride  a  stray- 
ing troop  horse,  lifted  Jimmie  to  the  saddle  in  front  of 
him,  and  set  off  at  a  lumbering  gallop  to  render  a  re- 
port to  his  corps  commander. 

On  the  way  he  scarcely  spoke,  saying  only,  as  they 
started : 

"  If  you  and  I  have  any  sort  of  luck,  Jimmie,  we'll 


«  GENERAL  "  DAD  157 

have  plenty  of  years  to  tell  each  other  what's  happened 
since  we  said  good-by  that  night  back  at  Ideala. 

"  But  just  this  minute  we  belong  to  Uncle  Sam;  and 
he  needs  us  a  lot.  Our  best,  quickest  thoughts,  most 
of  all.  For  there's  trouble  ahead  for  the  man  who  isn't 
fitted  to  think  it  out. 

"  What's  become  of  my  superior  officers  back  there 
in  the  woods  I  don't  know.  They'll  show  up  when  the 
glory  is  handed  out.  But  just  now  they're  a  trifle 
scarce.  And  there  may  be  work  for  me.  I've  got  to 
do  some  planning  —  some  mighty  tall  planning,  too." 

Presently  they  drew  up  at  a  small,  cleared  space  in 
the  center  of  the  portion  of  the  demi-corps  that  had  not 
been  tossed  into  the  forest  charge. 

Dad  dismounted,  leaving  the  horse  to  an  orderly, 
and,  with  Jimmie  at  his  side,  walked  up  to  the  white 
and  wildly  excited  corps  commander.  The  latter,  with 
his  staffs,  had  witnessed  through  binoculars  the  hot  lit- 
tle charge. 

The  commander  was  fairly  bubbling  with  questions. 

"  Sir,"  formally  announced  Dad,  at  attention,  ''  I 
have  to  announce  that  we  carried  the  Confederate  posi- 
tion at  the  edge  of  the  woods  yonder,  and  that  we  have 
captured  between  twenty-eight  and  thirty  cannon  of 
various  sizes.  The  exact  list,  with  those  of  our  losses, 
will  be  delivered  to  you  as  soon  as  it  can  be  determined. 
I  have  returned  to  — " 

*^  Splendid !  "  broke  in  the  young  general,  with  a  fine 
fervor.     "  A  complete  victory !     I  shall  send  full  re- 


158  "  DAD  " 

port  at  once  to  General  McClellan  at  headquarters ;  and 
you  can  be  assured,  Captain  Dadd,  that  your  own  gal- 
lant conduct  shall  by  no  means  be  forgotten  in  my  re- 
port.    As  for  this  little  hero  with  the  Hrum  — '' 

"  General,"  interposed  Dad,  dropping  his  voice  and 
moving  a  step  nearer  to  the  exuberant  commander, 
"  may  I  speak  plainly  ?  " 

"  By  all  means,  sir ! "  bleated  the  commander,  with 
his  best  Napoleon  air.  "  The  hero  of  such  a  victory 
as  this  has  just  proved  may  well — " 

"  This  is  no  victory,  general,"  urged  Dad,  with  ter- 
rible earnestness.  **  It  was  a  flank  movement  that 
amounts  to  but  one  move  in  a  big  game.  Our  videttes 
reported  the  approach  of  Confederates  in  force  beyond 
the  hill  there,  you  may  recollect.     Has  — " 

"  Bless  me !  "  cried  the  young  general,  aghast.  "  I'd 
forgotten.     In  the  glory  of  that  charge  I  — " 

"  In  the  taking  of  one  trick  you  have  thrown  away 
the  whole  hand ! "  burst  forth  Dad  in  righteous  wrath. 
"  That  affair  at  the  woods  was  just  a  flank  movement 
to  distract  and  weaken  us  and  later  perhaps  to  enfi- 
lade us. 

"  The  real  danger  lies  in  front  —  in  the  force  that 
lies  between  us  and  our  main  body.  A  force  that  has 
let  us  get  into  this  trap  to  catch  our  whole  demi-corps, 
as  Jackson  has  done  more  than  once  with  bigger  de- 
tached bodies  of  Federals  than  ours  in  the  past  six 
months.  That  or  drive  us  back  into  another  Confed- 
erate army  somewhere  to  the  south." 

"  Do  you  —  do  you  really  think  — "  stammered  the 


"  GENERAL  "  DAD  159 

general,  his  horror  making  him  insensible  to  his  adviser's 
tone  of  insubordination.     "  Do  you  — " 

"  I  think,  sir,  that  we  have  one  chance,  and  only  one 
—  to  strike  forward  at  full  speed  for  that  hill-top. 
The  nearer  we  get  to  the  summit  before  we  come  in 
touch  with  the  enemy,  the  better  our  chances. 

"  Throw  the  whole  force  ahead,  letting  the  men  who 
were  in  the  charge  at  the  woods  be  brought  up  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  form  our  rear  guard.  It  is  just 
one  chance ;  but  a  delay  will  leave  us  no  chance." 

The  young  commander,  pitiable  in  the  fright  of  crass 
inexperience,  clung  metaphorically  to  the  one  stable 
power  in  sight.  And  then  he  did  the  one  wise  thing 
in  his  whole  brief  military  career  up  to  this  point. 

Reading  calm  self-confidence  in  Dad's  face,  he  said 
loudly : 

"  Captain  Dadd,  you  are  hereby  appointed  tempo- 
rarily to  my  personal  staff."  Under  his  breath  he  mur- 
mured :     "  What  orders  ?  " 

Readily  and  without  change  of  expression  Dad  whis- 
pered a  score  of  successive  sentences  to  his  chief  — 
sentences  whose  technicalities  the  bewildered  politician- 
general  himself  did  not  half-grasp,  but  which  he  as 
promptly  transmitted  to  his  couriers. 

In  almost  no  time  the  inert  body  of  men  was  buzzing 
with  orderly  activity.  The  front  ranks  —  at  the  dou- 
ble, and  their  heavier  accouterments  consigned  to  the 
baggage  train  —  were  on  the  march,  hastening  eagerly 
toward  the  hill  summit,  the  successive  regiments  press- 
ing close  after. 


160  "  DAD '' 

"  You  see,  sir,"  Dad  was  explaining  to  the  general, 
^'  it  is  easier  to  advance  fifty  yards  toward  a  foe  over 
level  ground,  or  a  hundred  yards  down  a  slope,  than  ten 
yards  up  a  hill.  If  we  can  seize  and  hold  the  crest  be- 
fore they  reach  it,  it  is  so  much  net  gain. 

"  To  prevent  that,  and  to  delay  us  further,  the  flank 
movement  at  the  forest  edge  was  planned.  In  open 
order,  as  our  men  are  now  marching,  and  as  they  must 
continue  to  march,  they  avoid  presenting  a  good  target 
to  volley-fire." 

Regiment  after  regiment  wheeled  into  line  and 
breasted  the  long  slope,  the  rear  being  brought  up  by 
the  returning  heroes  of  the  forest  fight. 

Only  the  first  half  of  the  force  was  sent  ahead  at  the 
double.  The  rest  of  the  demi-corps,  baggage  and  big 
guns  with  them,  moved  at  a  more  sedate  pace. 

It  was  needful  only  to  assure  the  capture  of  the  crest 
and  that  it  should  be  held  until  the  entire  force  could 
come  up. 

If  there  seems  something  comic-operalike  in  the  idea 
of  a  Federal  force  marching  rapidly  to  battle  against 
a  foe  whose  numbers  were  unknown  and  whose  vanguard 
was  unseen  —  a  foe  whose  full  description  a  dozen 
scouts  had  not  given  hours  earlier  —  the  reader  is  re- 
spectfully, but  very  sadly,  referred  to  War  Department 
records  of  no  less  than  nine  similar  occurrences  in  the 
^Virginia  campaigns  of  186^  and  1863, 

Dad  (his  long  years  of  supposedly  aimless  reading 
of  military  tactics,  during  such  evenings  as  the  Eagle 
bar  had  not  called  him,  bearing  sudden  and  glorious 


"  GENERAL  "  DAD  161 

fruit)  knew  the  glow  that  can  be  equaled  by  none  other 
the  world  has  to  offer  —  the  inspiration  of  seeing  a 
mighty  mass  of  fellow  men  moving  and  acting  on  the 
sole  impulse  of  his  own  brain. 

He  grew  young  again.  As  he  rode  close  to  the  gen- 
eral's bridle  rein,  briefly  mapping  out  the  future  move- 
ments of  the  detachment,  he  felt  that  failure  and  he 
had  forever  bidden  each  other  adieu. 

Then  — 

A  scurrying  figure  that  scuttled  up  to  the  general, 
ducking  under  his  very  bridle  rein. 

"  Hey,  general ! "  shouted  Jimmie  full  fiercely. 
"  They  sent  me  back.  There's  going  to  be  fun  up  there 
ahead  by  and  by.  I  smell  it.  I  can  always  smell  it 
in  advance.  And  that's  where  I  and  my  drum  be- 
long. Give  me  a  chance  at  those  Rebs,  won't  you.f^ 
Oh,  please!  " 

There  was  a  chuckle  from  a  hundred  throats  as  the 
shrill  plea  went  up.  The  general  glanced  inquiringly 
at  Dad,  in  whose  company  Jimmie  had  arrived  on  the 
scene. 

"  He  is  my  grandson,  sir,"  explained  Dad. 
"  Though  what  he  is  doing  here  is  beyond  all  my  guess- 
ing. I  left  him  back  at  Ideala,  Ohio,  a  year  and  more 
ago.  I  never  heard  of  him  or  from  him  again  till  to- 
day. I'd  written  often,  but  the  letters  were  never  an- 
swered. I  see  now  they  never  were  received.  The 
boy's  silence  worried  me.  But  not  half  as  much  as 
his  presence  in  this  inferno  does  just  at  this  particular 
time." 


162  "  DAD  " 

"  Can  I  please  go  to  the  front,  gen'ral?  "  pleaded  the 
boy. 

His  voice  had  swelled  to  a  whine.  But  it  was  the 
frantic  whine  of  the  leashed  hunting-dbg  when  it  sees 
the  pack  afield. 

The  general  turned  to  Dad. 

"  He  is  your  grandson,  Captain  Dadd,"  said  he. 
**  Use  your  own  judgment  about  giving  him  the  per- 
mission he  wants.  I  have  enough  to  answer  for 
this  day  without  sending  a  little  boy  to  probable 
death." 

"  Little  boy  ?  "  scoffed  Jimmie,  outraged  to  the  pala- 
din soul.  "  Little  boy,  hey?  With  a  regiment  of  such 
'  little  '  boys  you  could  storm  Vicksburg.  And  with  a 
brigade  of  us  you  could  have  Richmond  for  the  ask- 
ing. 

**  Little  boy.''  I  take  notice  that  just  now  when  a 
passel  of  big,  wise  men  were  holding  back  and  wanting 
to  call  it  a  day  and  run  home,  it  was  a  little  boy  that 
jacked  'em  up  and  showed  'em  the  way  to  win.  And 
it's  the  same  little  boy  who'll  do  the  same  thing  again 
out  front  yonder  if  you'll  give  him  half  a  chance.  Aw, 
lemme  go!  Out  there  where  the  fun  is.  Me  and  my 
drum!" 

"  Jimmie !  "  reproved  Dad  sternly  —  though  his  eyes 
softened  at  manifestation  of  the  fighting  spirit  he  loved 
—  "  Apologize !  Apologize  at  once  for  speaking  dis- 
respectfully to  your  superior  oflScer.  He  could  rightly 
send  you  to  the  guard-house  for  impertinence.  A  sol- 
dier's duty  is  no  duty  when  it  lets  him  criticize  his  su- 


"GENERAL"  DAD  163 

periors.  If  nothing  else  proved  you  were  still  a  little 
boy,  your  behavior  just  now  proves  it.     Apologize !  " 

"I  —  I  apologize,"  meekly  answered  Jimmie,  accom- 
panying his  humble  words  with  a  horrible  glower  at  the 
general  by  his  grandfather's  side. 

'•  Don't  mention  it,  my  lad,"  returned  the  general, 
choking  back  a  guffaw  at  the  ludicrous  contrast  be- 
tween face  and  voice.  "  And  now,  if  your  grandfather 
thinks  well  of  it,  you  can  go  forward.  Take  your  or- 
ders from  him." 

Dad's  eyes  were  wide  with  sudden  distress. 

He  knew  what  type  of  work  was  likely  to  be  afoot 
beyond  the  hill-crest.  He  knew,  too,  that  where  the 
lead  should  rain  thickest  there  would  this  irrepressible 
grandson  of  his  be  found.  Once  already,  that  day,  the 
boy  had  escaped  death  almost  miraculously. 

By  the  law  of  chance  he  could  scarce  count  on  the 
intervention  of  a  second  miracle  in  his  behalf. 

"  Jimmie ! "  he  said.  "  I've  missed  you  so,  lad. 
And  the  world's  been  so  empty  without  my  chum.  It's 
hard  to  risk  a  longer  parting,  now  that  we've  just  had 
the  blind,  unbelievable  luck  to  meet  again." 

Jimmie  sighed,  thrust  the  drum  behind  him,  dutifully 
saluted,  and  fell  into  step  alongside  his  grandfather's 
horse  with  chin  stiffly  set. 

Dad  leaned  down  sideways  in  the  saddle  and  smote 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  It  takes  a  good  soldier  to  go  willingly  into  action. 
But  it  takes  a  blamed-sight  better  soldier  to  stay  out 
of  the  action  where  his  spirit  is  waiting  for  him  to  join 


164  «  DAD  " 

it.  Go  ahead,  lad!  Forward!  Do  your  own  work 
your  own  way.     I've  no  right  to  stay  you." 

The  boy  leaped  forward,  gripped  Dad's  hand  in  an 
ecstatic  instant's  pressure,  then  scuttled  off  up  the  hill 
ahead  of  the  more  slowly  advancing  staff. 

And  from  every  hurrying  regiment  that  he  outdis- 
tanced rose  a  laughing  cheer  for  Battle  Jimmie.  And 
so  he  went  on  toward  the  hill-crest,  and  beyond  it, 
where  crouched  the  unknown. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    CLASH 

THANKS  to  Dad's  foresight,  or  to  the  Confederate 
leader's  confidence  in  his  flank  movement's  power  to 
detain  his  proposed  prey,  the  hilltop  was  gained  by 
the  Yankee  vanguard  while  the  Confederates  were  still 
slowly  toiling  up  its  farther  and  far-steeper  slope. 

Before  the  advancing  Confederates  could  clearly  re- 
alize what  was  happening  the  Federal  vanguard  was 
bearing  down  upon  them. 

This  ruse  of  Dad's  (gleaned  by  him  from  the  tale  of 
a  battle  of  Frederick  the  Great)  took  the  enemy  wholly 
and  dumfoundedly  by  surprise. 

By  every  modern  tradition  of  warfare  the  force  on 
the  hilltop,  at  sight  of  the  approaching  enemy,  should 
have  halted  and  thrown  up  some  sort  of  defenses,  or  at 
the  least  should  have  awaited  the  foe's  approach. 

Instead  the  leading  Yankee  regiments,  moving  in 
semi-open  formation,  started  down  the  hill  at  the  dou- 
ble, straight  at  the  climbing  foes. 

And  other  regiments  and  yet  others  appearing  over 

the  summit  joined  in  the  charge.     The  crest  and  the 

upper  slope  of  the  hill  were  alive  with  running  men. 

And  five  yards  in  advance  of  the  foremost  line  leaped 

166 


166  "  DAD  " 

and  ran  and  yelled  and  drummed  a  deliriously  excited 
small  boy. 

When  a  man,  toiling  laboriously  up  a  steep  hill,  col- 
lides with  a  man  running  down  the  sailie  hill,  which  is 
the  more  apt  to  be  bowled  over  by  the  impact? 

The  runner  is  reenforced  by  his  own  great  impetus, 
the  climber  handicapped  by  his  own  fatigue  and  the 
sloping  of  the  ground  behind. 

And  what  is  true  of  two  men  is  true  of  two  hundred 
or  of  two  thousand  or  of  any  larger  number  of  men. 

The  Federal  line  crashed  down  upon  the  slow-moving 
Confederates,  smashed  their  ranks  and  tore  through 
them  with  scarce  a  halt.  The  Confederates,  reeling 
from  the  collision,  were  sent  in  every  direction,  with 
no  earthly  chance  to  reform  or  to  battle  against  the 
resistless  onrush. 

The  trap,  so  well  planned  and  so  badly  sprung,  was 
no  longer  a  trap.  For  the  proposed  victims  had  torn 
their  way  out  of  it  ere  its  proposed  iron  jaws  could 
close  relentlessly  upon  them. 

Straight  on  moved  the  Federals;  slowly  as  they 
neared  the  hillf oot,  to  keep  their  whole  depth  intact  and 
guard  their  baggage  and  heavy  guns.  But  by  this  time 
the  Confederates  on  either  side  of  the  advancing  column 
were  scattered  beyond  rallying. 

And  the  Confederate  center,  which  had  given  back 
before  the  rush,  was  running  for  shelter  toward  a  group 
of  rambling  houses  that  made  up  a  creek-side  village 
a  half-mile  behind  and  a  bit  to  the  left  of  the  routed  lines 
of  gray. 


THE  CLASH  167 

"  Straight  on,"  advised  Dad,  "  closing  your  forma- 
tion. Three  hours'  march  should  put  us  in  touch  with 
the  main  body  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  Leave  a 
couple  of  regiments  to  make  a  demonstration  against 
that  village,  so  that  the  rest  can  get  well  out  of  reach 
without  fear  of  a  flank  attack.  Then  when  we  have 
moved  past,  let  them  retreat  and  join  us." 

The  corps  commander,  with  just  sense  enough  left 
not  to  tamper  with  his  own  unbelievable  good  luck,  is- 
sued orders  accordingly,  leaving  Dad  behind  as  his  staff 
representative  with  the  two  regiments  and  the  moun- 
tain battery  detailed  to  hold  the  village's  defenders  in 
play. 

Jimmie,  the  fun  being  over,  found  his  way  back  to 
his  grandfather's  side,  a  very  tired,  very  happy,  very 
flushed  little  hero. 

Dad  gripped  both  the  perspiring  and  weary  hands  in 
silent  gratitude  for  the  lad's  safety. 

Then,  as  he  was  not  on  active  duty  for  the  moment, 
he  drew  aside  under  a  big  tree  out  of  the  line  of  fire,  sat 
down,  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

The  boy  dropped  with  a  full  sigh  of  content  at  his 
feet. 

"  The  real  work  is  done.  You  and  your  drum  ca,n 
take  a  little  holiday,"  said  Dad.  "  All  these  two  regi- 
ments and  the  battery  are  to  do  is  to  keep  up  some 
sort  of  fire  on  the  village,  and  pretend,  if  necessary,  to 
rush  it.  Just  to  keep  those  fellows  on  the  defensive 
till  the  rest  of  our  line  is  well  past. 

''  One  of  those  is  an  Ohio  regiment,  by  the  way.     It 


168  "  DAD  " 

joined  our  corps  only  yesterday.  I've  been  wanting  to 
ride  over  to  its  quarters,  about  three  miles  from  ours. 
Because  it  was  recruited  at  Columbus,  and  may  have 
some  of  our  Ideala  boys  in  it." 

He  had  been  speaking  lightly,  for  several  officers  were 
loitering  within  earshot.  Now,  as  the  last  of  them 
passed  out  of  hearing.  Dad  laid  his  hand  lovingly  on 
his  grandson's  shoulder. 

"  Jimmie,  lad,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  about  everything. 
I've  wanted  so  to  know.  And  it's  the  first  minute  when 
we've  been  alone  together  and  that  I've  had  the  right 
to  ask.  First  of  all,  how  do  you  happen  to  be  here  and 
not  in  the  Ideala  high  school  where  you  belong?  " 

"  I  stood  it  for  a  couple  of  months  after  you  left," 
began  Jimmie.  "  And  —  say,  mother  was  as  mad  as 
wrath  about  your  going.  I  told  her,  after  a  while,  that 
you'd  enlisted.  But  I  don't  quite  think  she  believed  it. 
Mother  said  she  was  going  to  Europe  for  a  year,  now 
that  there  was  nothing  to  hold  her  at  home;  and  she 
fixed  it  for  me  to  board  with  Uncle  Cyrus  and  go  to 
high  school  while  she  was  gone.     And  —  and  — " 

"  I  see,"  murmured  Dad,  readily  visualizing  the 
lonely  boy's  plight  and  his  yearning  to  desert  such  a 
humdrum,  boresome  existence  as  had  been  mapped  out 
for  him  in  favor  of  joining  the  excitement  at  the  front. 

"  I  wrote  to  you,"  said  Jimmie,  "  a  lot  of  letters. 
But  they  all  came  back  to  me.  I  didn't  know  what  de- 
partment or  regiment  to  address.  I  wasn't  even  sure 
you'd  taken  the  name  '  James  Dadd '  that  I'd  picked 
out  for  you." 


THE  CLASH  169 

"  Why,  /  wrote  to  you,  son.  A  dozen  times.  Tell- 
ing you  — " 

The  boy  flushed  uncomfortably. 

"I  —  I  s'pose  mother  has  a  right  to  do  whatever 
she  likes  with  letters  that  come  to  our  house,"  he  mum- 
bled.    "  It's  her  house,  you  know.     And  after  she  left 

—  well,  I  wasn't  there  either." 

"  Yes.  Yes.  It's  all  right.  No  one's  to  blame. 
Go  on." 

"  Two  fellers  on  our  block,  only  a  year  older'n  I 
was,  went  away  to  Columbus  to  enlist,"  pursued  Jim- 
mie.  "  They  were  pretty  big.  And  they  swore  they 
were  eighteen.  So  they  got  accepted.  That  was  too 
much  for  me.  Nobody  needed  me  at  Uncle  Cyrus's. 
And  I  missed  you  such  a  lot.  And  all  the  time  I  could 
hear  the  war  whispering  and  calling  to  me  the  way  you 
said  it  always  does  to  men  who  love  their  country.     So 

—  I  ran  away  to  Columbus,  the  way  the  other  fellers 
had,  too." 

"  Yes  ?  But  you  weren't  even  fifteen  yet,  let  alone 
eighteen.     How  could  — " 

"  That  was  the  trouble.  The  recruiting  sergeant 
sized  me  up  the  minute  he  set  eyes  on  me  —  for  all  I'd 
stuffed  hay  in  my  shoes  to  make  me  taller  and  walked 
on  my  toes.  But  he  got  a  bounty  for  all  the  fellers 
he  put  through,  so  he  just  shoved  the  Bible  at  me  and 
told  me  to  put  my  hand  on  it  and  say  I  was  eighteen 
and  it  would  be  all  right.     And  —  and  —  I  couldn't." 

"  Of  course  not,  Jimmie,"  assented  Dad  softly. 
"  We're    the    fighting    Brintons.     Not    the    perjuring 


170  "  DAD  " 

Brmtons.  It's  a  terrible  thing  at  best  to  have  to  lay 
your  hand  on  the  Book  and  swear  to  anything.  But 
when  there's  any  shadow  of  doubt  about  the  truth  of 
the  thing  you  swear  to  —  why,  a  realjTnar^  can't." 

"  How  about  the  two  other  fellers  ?  Aren't  they 
guilty  of  — " 

"  '  Guilty  's  '  a  pretty  big  word  for  anybody  except 
God  to  use.     What  happened  next.?  " 

"  I  had  eighteen  dollars  in  my  window-bank.  I 
bought  a  second-hand  uniform,  cut  it  down  myself,  and 
then  bought  a  second-hand  drum.  And  I  lit  out  for 
the  Mississippi,  where  I  heard  some  of  the  Ohio  regi- 
ments were  fighting.     I  had  a  kind  of  hope  I'd  find  you. 

"  I  got  to  a  place  where  our  men  were  trying  to 
storm  a  battery.  I  —  I  couldn't  wait,  the  way  I  meant 
to,  to  ask  some  drum  major  to  take  me  on  as  drummer- 
boy.  First  thing  I  knew  I  was  in  front  of  our  line, 
banging  the  drum  and  telling  the  men  to  come  on. 
And  —  they  came." 

"  Good  boy !     Fighting  Brinton !  " 

*'  After  that  they  kind  of  adopted  me  in  the  army  of 
the  West.  Let  me  come  and  go  as  I  would.  And 
called  me  *  Battle  Jimmie '  and  tried  to  make  a  pet  of 
me.     Gee !     Do  /  look  like  a  pet  ? 

"  I  asked  everywhere  for  you,  and  I  got  hold  of  all  the 
army  lists  I  could.  There  wasn't  any  news  of  you  in 
the  army  of  the  West.  But  I  saw  a  man  there  —  a 
man  those  Western  soldiers  say  is  a  wonder  —  who  may 
be  the  same  man  you  used  to  tell  me  about.  The  one 
you  used  to  know  in  Mexico  as  Captain  Grant.     I  guess 


THE  CLASH  171 

he's  the  same  one,  because  he  was  a  captain  In  the  Mexi- 
can War.  He's  general  now.  A  man  without  a  word 
in  his  mouth,  but  with  all  the  military  sense  there  is. 

"  One  day  last  month  I  came  across  a  list  of  com- 
missioned officers  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  It  had 
your  name.     So  here  I  came. 

"  I  got  to  the  army's  headquarters  yesterday  and  I 
found  what  corps  you  were  with  and  where  it  was.  I 
borrowed  an  artillery  horse  and  cut  across  country  to 
look  for  you.  I  got  here  just  as  you  fellers  were  charg- 
ing the  woods. 

"  That's  all  about  me.  Now,  how  about  yoWy  Dad.'^ 
You've  succeeded.  You're  a  captain.  Isn't  it  won- 
derful?    How  did  it  happen?     I  knew  it  would." 

Briefly,  Dad  sketched  his  adventures;  the  hot  little 
hand  in  his,  thrilling  with  the  recital,  the  boy's  light 
eyes  raised  to  his  in  stark  hero-worship. 

As  Dad  came  to  the  scene  in  the  old  Virginia  home- 
stead his  voice  shook  a  little  with  embarrassment.  He 
glossed  over  all  that  part  of  the  tale  save  the  little 
widow's  surpassing  goodness  to  himself.  He  congratu- 
lated himself  on  the  tactful  secrecy  wherein  he  was 
shrouding  any  hint  of  sentiment. 

Jimmie  made  no  comment,  and  Dad  went  on  with  the 
rest  of  the  story.  At  its  close  the  boy  said,  as  though 
picking  up  the  thread  of  a  long-discussed  theme : 

"  Yes,  I  shed  think  she'd  make  a  bully  grandmother 
for  any  feller." 

''  She?  "  rasped  Dad.  "  Who?  What  on  earth  are 
you  bleating  about?  " 


172  "  DAD '' 

"  About  Mrs.  Sessions,  of  course,  Dad.  Why,  don't 
you?  " 

"  Son,"  coldly  declaimed  his  grandfather,  "  there's 
things  a  fool  boy  has  no  right  to  —  to  —  Oh,  Jim- 
mie,  lad,  how'd  you  guess?  She's  a  wonderful  little 
woman.  And  I  told  her  all  about  you.  And  she  feels 
just  like  a  mother  to  you  already.  She  says  so,  son, 
and  —  *^ 

"  My  lad,"  Dad  caught  himself  up  pompously,  "  this 
is  not  a  subject  I  care  to  discuss.  Have  you  heard 
anything  from  your  father?     Or  have  you  seen  him?  " 

"  N  —  nOj  sir,"  said  the  boy,  strangling  a  laugh  at 
his  grandfather's  abrupt  change  of  tone,  and  wisely 
humoring  the  whim  of  reticence.  "  I  haven't  seen  him. 
I  was  afraid  to  look  him  up  for  fear  he  might  want  to 
pack  me  off  out  of  this  back  to  that  old  school." 

"  He  might,"  agreed  Dad.  "  A  year  ago  he  would. 
But  perhaps  this  past  year  he's  learned  something  him- 
self in  this  war-school  that  will  make  him  understand 
you  better.  It  will  be  great  when  we  are  all  three  home 
again  and  can  have  camp-fires  and  yam  over  our  ex- 
ploits. I  make  no  doubt  Joseph  is  a  commissioned  of- 
ficer long  ago.  He  is  bound  to  become  one,  yes.  Un- 
questionably, a  man  of  his  solid  wisdom  — " 

A  crackle  of  musketry  broke  in  on  the  talk. 

The  two  Federal  regiments,  in  fan-formation,  were 
moving  slowly  forward  toward  the  village.  Advancing 
a  few  yards  under  fire,  they  would  halt,  drop  to  earth, 
and  let  fly  at  the  village  walls  and  windows;  crawling 
forward  once  more  and  repeating  the  maneuvers. 


THE  CLASH  173 

^'  It's  a  good  move,"  Dad  approved.  *^  It  would  be 
crazy  for  them  to  try  to  carry  the  village  by  storm. 
But  they  just  want  to  keep  the  Confeds  amused  and 
hold  them  where  they  are  for  a  half-hour  or  so.  Our 
boys  will  fall  back  presently,  and  start  the  same  tactics 
over  again." 

The  rippling  fire  from  the  Federals  was  answered  by 
a  truly  vicious  outpour  of  smoke  and  flame-jet  from  the 
doors  and  windows  and  angles  of  the  little  village. 

Back  ran  the  maneuvering  Federals  to  cover.  And 
as  they  did  so,  Dad  jumped  to  his  feet  with  an  involun- 
tary cry  of  dismay. 


1 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE    PRODIGAL    FATHEE 

THE  fan-formation  made  the  Federal  line  wide- 
scattered,  as  in  "  deploying  skirmishers."  Every 
man  had  fully  fifty  feet  of  space  between  himself  and 
the  next  soldier. 

This  formation,  and  the  eccentric  method  of  advance 
and  retreat,  combined  with  the  long  range,  made  the 
Yankee  regiments  extremely  difficult  targets  for  volley 
fire. 

Almost  unscathed,  they  had  made  their  advance. 
And  almost  unscathed  they  were  coming  back. 

It  was  not  a  battle.  It  was  merely  a  bit  of  bull-bait- 
ing. 

And  now  it  was  over;  and  the  two  regiments,  at  a 
command,  were  withdrawing  from  range,  preparatory 
to  massing  and  resuming  their  march,  to  catch  up  with 
their  own  main  body. 

The  few  men  who  had  fallen  were  easily  "  brought 
in  "  by  their  comrades. 

But  Dad's  alert  eyes  had  just  seen,  from  his  point 
of  vantage,  what  the  half-wriggling,  half-crawling  skir- 
mishers had  not.  A  man  at  the  extreme  left  of  the 
"  fan  "  had  jumped  to  his  feet  midway  in  the  return, 

had  whirled  clean  about  and  had  fallen. 

174 


THE  PRODIGAL  FATHER  175 

The  wounded  man  got  to  his  hands  and  knees,  tried 
to  move  back,  and  fell  again. 

And  now,  from  a  roof  in  the  village,  two  or  three 
sharpshooters  were  evidently  at  work  amid  the  din  of 
useless  volleying.  And  one  or  more  of  these  sharp- 
shooters began  to  single  out  this  crawling  man  —  the 
only  Federal  still  within  range  —  as  a  mark. 

The  fellow  had  once  more  risen  to  his  knees,  and  was 
w^orking  his  way  back  toward  his  unseeing  comrades. 

A  bullet  whipped  up  a  pufF  of  dust  just  behind  him. 
A  second  carried  away  his  cap.  A  third  grazed  him 
on  hand  or  wrist  and  knocked  him  from  his  balance. 

Then  it  was  that  Dad  shouted  aloud.  For,  as  the 
stumbling  man  lurched  forward,  head  thrown  backward 
like  a  hurt  animal's.  Dad  had  seen  his  face. 

"  Jimmie !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  It's  —  it's  Joe ! 
He's  bronzed  and  he's  got  a  beard ;  but  it's  Joe !  And 
those  sharpshooters  back  there  are  testing  their  aim  on 
him.     Wait  for  me  here,  son,  for  a  minute !  " 

As  he  spoke  a  bugle  sounded  —  the  bugle  that  sum- 
moned the  re-formed  Federal  regiments  to  the  march. 

Dad,  running  low,  and  darting  eccentrically  from 
side  to  side  to  confuse  the  aim  of  the  sharpshooters, 
dashed  out  onto  the  deserted  field. 

Quickly  he  was  seen,  as  was  tested  by  renewed  spits 
of  fire  from  a  roof.  And  bullets  began  to  whine  past 
him. 

Untouched,  he  gained  the  spot  where  his  son  lay  mo- 
mentarily senseless  from  pain. 

He  bent  over  the  fallen  man,  caught  him  up  in  his 


176  "DAD" 

arms,  and  started  heavily  back  toward  the  tree,  keep- 
ing his  own  body  between  Joseph  and  the  village. 

Then  it  was  that  Dad  discovered  Jimmie  close  at  his 
side, 

"  I  told  you  to  wait  —  back  there  —  for  me  to  come 
back !  "  he  panted. 

"  I  couldn't !  "  muttered  Jimmie  in  the  same  short-of- 
breath  tone.  "  Gimme  his  feet  to  carry  —  I  want  to 
help  some  way." 

Dad  assented,  and  the  limp  weight  was  shifted  be- 
tween the  two. 

Bullets  spatted  the  ground  near  them.  One  rifle- 
ball  ripped  through  the  wooden  sides  of  Jimmie's  wor- 
shiped drum  slung  at  the  lad's  hip. 

"  Over  to  the  right,"  ordered  Dad.  "  To  that  cot- 
tage over  yonder.  We  can  get  him  there,  I  guess. 
And  then  you  can  cut  ahead  and  see  if  you  can  over- 
haul a  company  of  our  men  to  come  back  for  us." 

A  one-story  stone  hut  stood  some  fifty  yards  dis- 
tant; and  thither  they  bore  the  injured  man. 

It  was  no  longer  a  task  of  peril,  for  suddenly  the 
firing  had  stopped  from  the  now-beyond-range  roof- 
tops of  the  village. 

Dad,  as  they  reached  the  cottage  porch,  glanced 
back  toward  the  town  to  learn  the  reason;  pessimistic- 
ally certain  that  the  cessation  of  firing  meant  a  de- 
tachment of  Confederates  had  been  detailed  to  capture 
them. 

But  a  single  look  relieved  his  fears  and  explained  the 
situation  to  him.     The  village  was  a-buzz  with  hurry- 


THE  PRODIGAL  FATHER  177 

ing  men.  They  were  pouring  out  of  houses  and  barns 
like  ants  from  a  hill  in  an  excited  swarm. 

The  Confederates  had  evidently  just  discovered  the 
meaning  of  the  Federal  ruse  and  the  fact  that  the  two 
regiments  which  had  attacked  them  were  again  on  the 
march. 

Wherefore,  to  seize  at  least  a  remnant  of  glory  from 
the  day  of  defeats,  the  Confederate  leader  was  taking 
his  men  in  pursuit  of  the  withdrawing  regiments  in  the 
hope  of  overhauling  and  thrashing  them  before  they 
could  come  up  with  the  remainder  of  the  demi-corps, 
which  had  now  passed  out  of  sight. 

At  such  a  moment  the  capture  or  killing  of  three 
fugitive  Yankees  was  too  trivial  a  matter  to  think  of. 
The  village  was  emptied  with  incredible  speed. 

The  hut's  occupants  were  as  devoid  of  danger  as 
they  were  devoid  of  reasonable  chance,  by  this  move  on 
the  part  of  the  enemy,  of  rescue. 

Dad  explained  this  in  a  dozen  words  to  Jimmie  as 
they  laid  Joseph's  body  on  a  truckle  bed  in  the  half- 
furnished  front  room  of  the  cottage. 

"  We've  got  to  tend  to  him  ourselves,"  he  ended. 
^*  We  can't  carry  him,  wounded  like  this,  to  headquar- 
ters. It  might  kill  him.  If  there  was  just  someone 
here  who  understood  something  more  than  we  do  about 
nursing  — " 

"  There  is !  "  spoke  up  Jimmie. 

"What?" 

"  When  that  general  of  yours  hustled  all  the  guns 
and  the  baggage  along  he  left  the  two  biggest  wagons 


178  "  DAD  " 

to  follow.  I  know  why,  too.  They're  Red  Cross 
wagons.  Volunteer  nurses,  sawbones,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  They're  immune  from  setting  shot  or 
nabbed.  So  he  didn't  clog  up  the  '  rush  '  baggage  with 
'em. 

"  I  got  all  that  while  I  was  waiting  for  leave  to  go 
ahead  with  my  drum.  They  can't  be  over  a  mile  or 
so  off.  They'll  be  on  that  main  road  over  yonder 
somewhere." 

"  Go  and  find  one  of  the  wagons  if  you  can,"  ordered 
Dad.  ^'  Beg  a  nurse  and  a  surgeon  —  both,  if  you  can, 
and  get  back  as  quickly  as  possible.  You've  got  a 
good  head,  son,  to  remember  all  that.  It's  the  real 
man  who  stores  up  petty  details  and  makes  use  of  them. 
Hurry ! 

"  Wait ! "  he  exclaimed,  the  memory  of  a  woman's 
chance  words  flashing  athwart  his  mind.  "  Wait ! 
She  —  she  said  she  might  become  a  nurse.  Ask  if 
there  is  a  Mrs.  Sessions  —  remember  the  name  —  Ses- 
sions —  in  the  corps  of  nurses  there.  If  there  is,  ask 
if  she  can  be  detailed  for  this  work ! " 

Jimmie  was  gone. 

Dad  turned  back  to  the  couch  and  loosened  the 
throat  of  his  son's  jacket  and  shirt. 

Joseph  had  grown  thinner  and  darker  and  older  this 
past  year.  The  smugly  self-sufficient  look  seemed  gone 
from  his  face,  as  his  father  bent  solicitously  to  scan  it. 

Dad's  hands  ran  over  his  body  in  search  of  the 
wound. 

The  graze  on  the  wrist  was  a  mere  nothing.     But  a 


THE  PRODIGAL  FATHER  179 

spent  ball  had  struck  the  shoulder  and,  without  pierc- 
ing the  skin,  had  snapped  the  shoulder-blade  by  its  im- 
pact —  one  of  the  most  painful  and  least  perilous  of 
injuries. 

It  was  this  hurt  which  had  caused  Joseph  to  spring 
up,  stumble  and  fall,  and  whose  pain  had  later  made 
him  swoon. 

The  man  came  back  to  his  senses.  Opening  his  eyes 
and  seeing  above  him  an  officer  in  the  uniform  of  a  cap- 
tain, he  raised  his  uninjured  arm  with  difficulty  in  an 
lall-but-involuntary  salute. 

"  Joe !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Don't  you  know  me  ? 
Don't  you  know  me?     It's  Dad.     I  ^ —  mean  *  father.'  " 

Joseph  Brinton  looked  up  dully ;  with  eyes  that  had 
in  them  no  faintest  glint  of  recognition.  He  had 
known  the  uniform.     He  did  not  at  all  know  the  face. 

His  father,  to  the  best  of  his  son's  belief,  was  still 
spending  the  bulk  of  his  days  and  nights  lording  it  in 
frowzy  dignity  in  the  Eagle  bar;  his  long,  silvery  hair 
hanging  down  above  his  film-eyed  and  somewhat  bloated 
face ;  his  pursy  form  incased  in  the  shiny  old-fashioned 
frock  suit. 

Mrs.  Joseph  Brinton  had  not  thought  best  to  notify 
her  absent  lord  that  his  father  had  run  away. 

Partly  for  fear  of  worrying  the  soldier-husband; 
partly  lest  Joseph  be  inclined  in  his  primly  perfect  way 
to  blame  her  for  not  keeping  closer  watch  on  the  old 
man,  or  of  making  his  stay  at  the  big  house  happier 
than  had  been  her  frigid  course  in  reality. 

Of  Jimmie's  deflection  from  the  home  nest,  Joseph 


180  "DAD- 

knew  nothing,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  Mrs. 
Brinton,  still  in  Europe,  had  not  herself  been  to  date 
apprised  of  the  fact.  Her  family  had  feared  her  lofty 
wrath,  and  they  still  hoped  that,  his  war  craze  satiated, 
Jimmie  might  return  home  before  his  mother  should 
arrive  back  at  Ideala. 

In  the  alert  and  muscular  soldierly  figure  and  the 
lean,  strong  face  bent  above  him,  Joseph  now  saw  not 
one  lineament  of  a  father  whose  vagaries  he  had  borne 
so  long  and  with  such  exemplary  patience. 

But  at  a  repetition  of  the  words :  "  Don't  you  know 
me,  Joe?  ''  something  in  the  voice  struck  him  as  vaguely 
familiar.  Not  in  the  intonation  which  was  wholly  new ; 
but  the  timber. 

He  blinked  perplexedly.  Then  a  new  twinge  of  pain 
made  him  wince. 

"  You  are  not  dangerously  hurt,"  said  Dad.  "  It  is 
a  painful  wound,  but  it  is  not  serious.  Try  to  stand 
it  like  a  soldier.'^ 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Joseph. 

*'  You  still  don't  know  me  ?  Think,  man !  I  am 
your  father." 

'*  My  —  my  father!  "  echoed  Joseph  incredulously. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    LITTLE    LADY    AGAIN 

DAD  looked  up,  and  his  gaze  through  the  window 
fell  on  JImmie.  The  boy  had  paused  in  his  flight 
across  the  field  —  almost  at  the  threshold  of  the  cot- 
tage. 

His  grandfather  passed  out  to  see  what  was  delay- 
ing him. 

On  the  porch  Dad  halted,  staring  into  the  hot  haze 
of  sunshine  and  dust  that  rolled  up  from  the  fields. 

In  the  shade  of  a  magnolia.  Battle  Jimmie  was  squat- 
ting on  all  fours,  pulling  a  bayonet  out  of  the  ground. 

"What  are  you  doing?  "  asked  Dad. 

The  boy  looked  up  half  guiltily. 

*^  I  saw  this  bayonet  stuck  here,"  he  explained. 
''  And  —'' 

**  And  your  father  is  waiting  for  a  nurse,"  reproved 
Dad. 

"  I  know.  I'm  sorry.  But  I  thought  this  would  be 
nice  to  take  along.  IVe  always  wanted  one.  There 
isn't  any  great  hurry  about  father.  He  isn't  badly 
hurt.  I  knew  that  as  soon  as  I  looked  at  him.  I've 
seen  enough  of  them  to  know.  I  guess  he's  mostly 
scared." 

"  Jimmie ! " 

181 


18^  "  DAD  " 

"  When  I  saw  him  it  seemed  like  I  was  almost  a  kid 
again.  You  don't  suppose  he'll  make  me  go  back  to 
school  again,  do  you,  Dad?  I  —  I  wonder  who  used 
to  own  this  bayonet,  and  why  he  thr^w  it  away,  who- 
ever he  was?  Or  if  he  had  no  more  use  for  bayonets  and 
things." 

The  boy  fell  silent  there  in  the  acrid  haze,  looking 
into  unnamable  distances,  seeing  in  his  mind's  eye  the 
ceaseless  columns  of  sternly  marching  men. 

Dad  looked  at  the  bayonet.  On  its  haft  there  was 
a  dried  spot  —  a  spot  that  had  once  been  red  and 
wet — : 

It  was  the  jack-knife  that  war  gives  its  children. 
Dad  felt  a  queer  sensation  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
and,  surreptitiously  wiping  them,  muttered  something 
about  "  this  blamed  hay-fever,"  and  pretended  to  be 
very  brusk  and  ordered,  with  an  abominably  poor  imi- 
tation of  sarcasm: 

"  When  —  when  you  get  through  with  all  the  impor- 
tant duties  that  seem  to  be  worrying  you  so,  you  ske- 
daddle across  the  fields  and  see  if  you  can  find  me  that 
nurse  or  surgeon  for  your  father.  Get  out!  Keep  a 
running!  It  isn't  like  you  to  loaf  like  this.  And  I'm 
surprised  at  you.  And  —  remember  to  ask  for  a  Mrs. 
Sessions,  as  I  told  you.  It  is  an  off-chance.  But  in 
war,  off-chances  are  the  kind  that  happen.  Now, 
scurry.     Stop  wasting  time." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Jimmie.  "  I  guess  it's  the  sight 
of  father  that's  somehow  taken  all  the  ginger  out  of 
me.     I'm  going.'* 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  AGAIN  183 

Boyish  memories  of  the  dread  men  he  had  seen 
marching  —  marching  —  marching  —  faded  from  Jim- 
mie's  face.  He  sprang  up  to  attention,  his  eyes  bright 
and  keen,  his  thin,  brown  little  hand  at  his  temple  in  a 
cocky  salute,  while  he  cried : 

**  As  you  order,  captain !  " 

He  started  off  across  lots. 

He  was  not  a  small  boy  going  on  an  errand.  He  was 
a  well-trained  and  extremely  weary  and  unconsciously 
pathetic  little  soldier  who  had  seen  death  ride  down  the 
ranks  of  drawn  battle.  His  reaction  had,  boylike, 
taken  the  form  of  mischievous  perverseness. 

He  was  very  tired.  He  made  his  short  legs  carry 
him  on  and  on,  though  he  wanted  to  drop;  while  his 
eyes  swept  every  thicket  for  possible  Confederate  strag- 
glers or  skirmishers  along  his  way. 

As  he  reached  the  main  road  running  back  to  the 
town  and  the  distant  Federal  lines,  he  saw  a  movement 
in  the  sumac-bushes,  now  glittering  with  the  fire  of  ap- 
proaching autumn. 

What  was  it.?  He  couldn't  afford  to  get  shot  or 
captured  now.  He  had  to  bring  a  nurse.  Dad  had 
told  him  to. 

Jimmie  instantly  dropped  to  the  ground  and  lay 
without  movement. 

He  could  almost  see  the  stern,  quiet,  deadly  face  of 
the  foeman  who  must  be  hidden  there  in  that  nearest 
bush,  perhaps  already  aware  of  him  and  taking  his  aim 
—  perhaps  taking  aim  right  at  his  breast  as  he  lay  there 
so  quietly.     But  he  did  not  move.     He  waited. 


184j  "  DAD  " 

Then  the  sumac-bushes  parted,  and  out  from  between 
the  roots  peered  the  furry,  eager  face  of  a  dog;  impu- 
dent, inquiring,  with  his  ragged  left  ear  flapping  gayly 
over  his  eyes  while  he  stared  indignaritly  at  the  silent 
figure  in  the  roadside  ditch. 

That  eye  seemed  to  be  volubly  remarking : 

"  What  the  dickens  are  you  doing  there?  Trying  to 
fool  a  poor  dog  that  ain't  either  Johnnie  Reb  or  Yank ; 
but  just  a  plain,  ornery,  scared  mongrel,  boy's  dog  as 
can  hunt  you  out  gophers  ?  " 

At  least,  that's  what  Jimmie  would  have  sworn  the 
forlorn  mongrel  said  as  he  peered  out  from  the  sumacs. 

"  Howdy,  dog?  Where  y'  going?  "  Jimmie  inquired, 
sitting  up. 

The  dog  himself  said  nothing  but  "  Y-e-e-e-e-e-h." 
But  his  tail,  going  flippety-flip,  flippety-flip  against  the 
brush,  announced  its  entire  friendliness. 

The  answer  was  much  the  same  as  before,  while  the 
dog  looked  still  more  friendly  and  whined  a  little.  He 
cocked  his  ears  up  over  his  head. 

"  Think  you're  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  don't  you,  with 
your  cocked  hat  made  out  of  ears?  All  right;  that's 
your  name,  then  —  let's  see?  —  Emperor  Napoleon 
Peter  Bub  Bonaparte  Brinton  Dog,  Esquire.  I  give 
you  that  name  all  for  your  own.  Got  a  master?  Well, 
come  on  then.  Gotta  hurry.  Come  on,  boy ! "  He 
whistled. 

And  down  the  road  started  the  boy  afresh,  cheered 
by  companionship.  And  the  dog,  which  seemed  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  he  had  a  new  owner,  followed. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  AGAIN  185 

As  they  drew  up  to  the  line  of  sentries  about  the  hos- 
pital bivouac,  panting  with  haste,  a  sentry  stopped 
them,  mumbling :     "  Wh'  go  th'r'  ?  " 

"  Aw  —  y'  know  me !  "  snapped  Jimmie.  "  Lemme 
by.     I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"  Sure  I  know  you,"  grinned  the  sentry.  ^'  You're 
Gen'ral  McClellan.  But  who's  that  four-footed  gent 
with  you  ?  He  must  be  a  gen'ral,  too  —  ain't  he  ?  I 
notice  he's  a  little  gray  —  all  of  him  as  ain't  brown 
or  red  or  yaller  or  just  plain  dirt-colored." 

Jimmie  drew  himself  up  to  the  dread  height  of  his 
full  four  foot  seven  and  stalked  by,  meekly  followed  by 
Napoleon  Peter  Bub  Bonaparte  Brinton  Dog,  Esq., 
while  the  sentry  scoffed  after  the  twain : 

"  He's  a  well-bred  trick,  all  right ;  he's  got  more  kinds 
o'  breedin'  in  him  than  all  the  dogs  I  ever  see.  Them 
forepaws  look  to  me  like  South  Boston  bull,  but  I  guess 
his  second  toe-nail  on  his  lift  hind  foot  is  St.  Ber- 
nard." 

Across  the  camp  trailed  a  couple  of  Q.  M.  wagons 
drawn  by  tired  mules,  which  had  come  pounding  down 
the  turnpike  laden  with  nurses.  The  lieutenant-sur- 
geon in  charge  cantered  beside  them  on  a  bay  mare. 
Running  up  to  him,  Jimmie  bawled  out  In  a  command- 
ing treble : 

"  Halt !     Beg  pardon,  loot'nant,  but  — " 

"  Well,  well,  well,  well,  well ! "  snapped  the  surgeon, 
drawing  rein  sharply.  "What  Is  It.?  What  Is  It? 
What  Is  It?     What  Is  It?" 

"  Jimmlny  crickets!     ZIf  once  saying  It  wouldn't  be 


186  "  DAD  " 

enough ! ''  complained  Jimmie,  down  inside  himself ; 
while  aloud  he  begged,  quickly : 

"  Captain  James  Dadd  sent  me  for  a  nurse  for  an 
awful  dangerous  wounded  man  he's  lobking  after  down 
there  in  the  cottage  off  to  the  right  from  the  road," 

"  Captain  Dadd,  eh?     But  who're  you?  " 

"  Battle  Jimmie,  sir." 

"  Oh,  yes !  Sure !  I've  heard  of  you.  All  right. 
I'll  detail—" 

"  I  was  to  ask,"  piped  Jimmie,  belatedly  remember- 
ing — "  I  was  to  ask  if  there's  a  Mrs.  Sessions  in  the 
nurse  corps.     If  there  is,  please — " 

"Me?"  suggested  a  pleasant  voice  from  the  fore- 
most wagon  of  nurses  which  had  stopped  during  the 
colloquy. 

The  officer  and  Jimmie  looked  to  see,  peering  out 
from  under  the  canvas  cover,  a  rosy-cheeked,  delicate- 
skinned,  smiling  little  old  lady  —  a  sweet  and  silvery- 
voiced  little  old  lady  —  with  sleek  white  hair  shining 
under  the  edge  of  her  nurse's  cap, 

*'  Eh  ?  "  snapped  the  officer. 

**  I  know  Captain  Dadd,  and  I'm  going  to  help  him,'* 
said  the  old  lady  in  nurse's  uniform,  sweetly  but  deci- 
sively, starting  to  climb  out  of  the  wagon.  "  Espe- 
cially since  he's  bothered  to  ask  for  me." 

While  the  newly  appointed  officer  stared  in  wrathy 
silence,  wondering  just  what  the  military  regulations 
for  volunteer  army  surgeons  said  about  the  proper 
method  of  coercing  nurse-ladies  almost  old  enough  to 
be  one's  mother,  the  old  lady  climbed  briskly  down  from 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  AGAIN  187 

the  wagon,  one  trim  foot,  in  a  neat  slipper  with  a  co- 
quettish silver  buckle,  on  the  wheel  hub. 

She  seized  Jimmie's  arm,  patted  Napoleon  on  the 
head,  and  started  trotting  off  without  another  look 
back,  while  the  surgeon  wheeled,  shouted  "  Forward !  " 
and  moved  off. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  I  fancy  you  must  be  Jimmie 
Brinton,"  laughed  the  old  lady,  panting  a  little  with 
the  fast  walk  into  which  she  had  led  Jimmie. 

"  Yessum,"  wondered  Jimmie,  looking  up  adoringly 
at  the  rosy-cheeked  old  lady. 

Somehow  she  seemed  to  mean  to  him  gingerbread 
cookies  —  and  long  stories  and  sleepy  Sunday  after- 
noons when  the  hammock  swung  among  June  roses  — 
and  a  motherly  breast  on  which  to  whisper  out  his 
griefs  and  disillusions. 

Somehow  the  halt  while  he  had  investigated  the  grim 
bayonet  rusted  with  a  dead  man's  blood,  and  the  hot 
afternoon,  and  the  pattering  footsteps  of  Emperor  Na- 
poleon Bonaparte  behind  him,  and  the  comfortable 
mother-face  of  the  plump  and  gentle  old  lady  trotting 
beside  him  —  they  all  blurred  together,  and  he  knew 
that  he  was  very  tired  and  wanted  to  be  taken  care 
of. 

For  a  second  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  was  going  to 
faint  with  the  heat,  confessing  all  the  burden  of  the 
reaction  and  his  weariness ;  that  he  was  going  to  lie 
down  in  the  shade  and  just  be  a  tired  small  boy  nursed 
by  a  kindly  old  lady. 

Then  he  straightened  himself  up  and  bit  his  lip  till 


188  "  DAD  " 

it  stung  and  clutched  her  soft  arm  protectingly,  while 
he  mumbled: 

"  Yessum,  I'm  Jimmie  —  Battle  Jimmie,  they  call  me 
—  and  I'll  watch  out  for  you,  I  will,!  if  any  of  them 
blamed  Rebs  try  to  get  funny  with  you,  ma'am ! " 

"  Oh,  you  dear  boy ! "  she  caroled  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  to  him  like  a  running  brook  and  a  mother-song 
and  a  laughing  girl,  all  at  once. 

And,  without  ever  for  a  second  ceasing  her  puffing 
little  trot,  she  leaned  over  and  kissed  his  tangle  of  soft 
red  hair. 

*'  I  know  your  grandfather,  my  dear,  and  I'm  sure 
you'll  take  care  of  me,  because  he  says  you're  a  chip  of 
the  old  block  —  and  I  know  it,  now  I've  seen  you." 

"  You  know  —  Dad?  "  he  asked  in  wonder. 

"  Yes  —  and  now  I  know  Dad's  dear  chum  and 
grandson,  too,"  she  answered,  laughing.  "  I'm  the 
Mrs.  Sessions  you  were  sent  for.  At  least,  I  used  to 
be  when  I  knew  your  grandfather.  But  for  the  last 
month  I've  been  Volunteer  Nurse  Sessions,  of  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac.  So,  you  see,  we  are  all  three  soldiers 
together :  you  and  I  and  —  Dad !  " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   AFTERGLOW 

WHILE  Jlmmie  was  hastening  over  across  the  sun- 
sodden  fields  in  search  of  a  nurse,  Captain 
James  Dadd  returned  to  the  cottage  and  stood  by  the 
cot  of  his  son,  looking  down  at  him  again. 

Private  Joseph  Brinton  stared  back,  trying  to  make 
sure  that  his  father,  the  wastrel,  really  wore  the  in- 
signia of  an  army  captain. 

Trying  to  make  sure  —  not  to  understand.  That 
was  beyond  him. 

"  Jimmie's  doing  some  real  brave  work,  isn't  he  ?  " 
said  the  father  timidly. 

"  Why,  he's  —  Father,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how 
you  — " 

"  Jimmie's  well  thought  of  by  everyone  —  officers 
and  men,"  Dad  continued  hastily,  feeling  suddenly 
guilty  the  moment  the  conversation  turned  to  his  own 
unworthy  self.  **  I'm  glad  you  have  such  a  son,  Joseph. 
Maybe  he'll  make  it  up  to  you  for  my  having  wasted 
so  much  of  my  life.  Because,  you  see,  I  do  know,  I 
do  understand,  that  your  own  life  has  always  been 
founded  on  big  principles.  And  I  guess  there  has  al- 
ways been  something  careless  about  — " 

189 


190  "  DAD  " 

^'  Stop !  "  ordered  Private  Joseph  Brinton  dazedly ; 
and  Captain  James  Dadd  meekly  obeyed. 

"  Stop !  As  far  as  I  can  see,  fa  they,  you  must  have 
done  some  wonderful  work  as  a  soldier  —  however  it  all 
came  about  —  and  — " 

He  paused,  blinked,  and  caught  up  the  thread  of  his 
words : 

"  But  honestly,  father  —  and  I  think  you  understand 
that  I  am  not  a  man  who  has  been  accustomed  to  be 
apologetic  —  I  really  feel  that  I  have  learned  some- 
thing during  the  past  year  of  fighting  for  the  old  flag. 
Somehow,  honestly,  father  —  though  perhaps  you 
won't  believe  it  — " 

Joseph  stopped,  almost  shy,  while  his  father  hastened 
to  assure  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes !     I  do  believe  you,  Joseph." 

*'  Well,  father,  sometimes  nights,  when  I've  sat  by  a 
camp-fire  or  paced  a  lonely  post  doing  sentry-go,  I've 
wondered  if  my  business  was  necessarily  as  important 
as  I  used  to  think  it  was;  and  I  wondered  if  I  didn't 
make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  Almighty  God  cre- 
ated the  world  just  for  that  business  of  mine ;  and  if  I 
wasn't  rather  harsh  with  you." 

"  Joe ! "  exclaimed  Dad  in  wonder ;  but  his  son 
plunged  on: 

"And  now  when  I've  found  how  dev'lishly  hard  — 
yes,  dev'lish,  though  you  know  I  never  did  believe  in 
cussing  —  how  dev'lishly  hard  it  was  just  to  be  a  pri- 
vate, and  forget  your  own  cold  feet  and  stinging  eyes 
when  you  were  ordered  out  in  the  night  to  trot  down  in 


THE  AFTERGLOW  191 

front  —  ugh !  —  down  there  in  the  darkness  where  little 
flashes  showed  the  enemy  were  waiting  for  you  —  when 
I  found  out  how  hard  that  was,  and  now  I  find  you  here 
an  officer  —  and  you  so  much  older  than  I  —  oil!  " 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shriek. 

*'  Those  flashes  —  us  sitting  by  the  fire,  thinking  of 
home  and  the  office,  and  feeling  so  safe,  and  then  having 
to  shoulder  Springfields  and  trot  down  there  where 
there  might  be  a  Reb  behind  every  tree  —  father,  I  swear 
to  you  that  often  —  often  —  it  was  because  I  remem- 
bered that  I  was  the  son  of  a  soldier  that  I  was  able  to 
do  it. 

"  Business  had  killed  something  in  me,  but  war  seems 
to  have  brought  it  to  life  again,  and  I'm  proud  of  you 
—  proud  —  oh,  Daddy  —  oh,  I've  wanted  to  tell 
you  — " 

He  choked.  The  wound  and  the  shock  were  doing 
their  work  on  self-contained  Joseph  Brinton. 

Captain  James  Dadd,  falling  on  his  knees  beside  the 
rude  and  cluttered  cot,  smoothed  his  son's  hair.  He 
darted  out  to  the  spring  at  the  back  of  the  cottage  and 
brought  his  cap  full  of  water,  and  bathed  Joseph's  fore- 
head, all  the  while  agitatedly  insisting: 

"  There,  there,  my  boy !  You  were  right  —  I  wasn't 
much  good,  and  if  you  did  think  of  me  as  a  soldier,  it's 
more  than  I  deserved.  Don't  —  don't,  my  boy!  I 
don't  at  all  understand  what  you  mean  about  business 
having  killed  something  in  you.  You  were  always  an 
upright  man." 


192  "  DAD  " 

"  I've  always  been  proud  of  you  —  I've  always 
prayed  that  the  dear  God  would  forgive  me  for  my  own 
useless  life  because  my  son  was  a  man  who  helped  build 
up  progress  and  helped  keep  his  world  going.  And 
you  were  always  so  honest  — " 

The  prim  Joseph  Brinton  of  the  office  was  not  yet  all 
transformed  into  a  soldier  of  the  legion.  The  sick  man, 
his  moment  of  breakdown  passing,  listened  to  his 
father's  praise  quite  calmly,  taking  it  quite  as  a  matter 
of  fact. 

There  was  no  little  pride  in  the  manner  in  which  he 
assented : 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  always  was  honest,  as  you 
say.'' 

Nor  did  he  offer  any  protest  as  Dad  bustled  about, 
bathing  his  cheeks  and  twitching  his  hot  pillow  into 
shape,  and  running  to  the  door  to  gaze  out  into  the 
stifling  haze  for  a  sign  of  Jimmie  and  the  nurse. 

But  when  Dad  at  length  settled  down  beside  the  cot, 
patting  Joseph's  hand,  the  two  of  them  sat  quiet  there 
in  the  dusk  of  the  little  room. 

And  for  the  first  time  since  Joseph  had  thought  of 
his  father  as  disgraced,  there  was  peace  and  love  hov- 
ering about  them,  glorifying  the  dingy  cottage  between 
the  battle  lines. 

Loud  hummed  the  great  locusts  outside,  a  drowsy, 
distant  z-z-z,  z-z-z,  like  the  lazy  croon  of  the  death- 
bearing  Minie  balls  which  Dad  (that  inveterate  old 
child,  who  would  never  stop  his  making  believe!)  half- 
unconsciously  pretended  they  really  were. 


THE  AFTERGLOW  193 

Sitting  in  the  little  cottage,  stroking  Joseph's  hands, 
suddenly  he  heard  voices  coming  — ;  the  shy  little  laugh 
of  Battle  Jimmie  and,  running  through  Jimmie's  chat- 
ter like  a  silver  thread,  a  voice  which  startled  him  —  a 
familiar  voice  he  could  not  place,  but  which  seemed 
rich  with  a  peculiar  magic  that  attaches  itself  to  the 
beloved. 

Softly  laying  Joseph's  hands  back  on  the  cot,  he  tip- 
toed to  the  door  and  saw  —  Jimmie  and  Mrs.  Sessions, 
his  dream-lady  of  the  lavender-scented  attic! 

And  his  greeting  to  her  might  have  been  the  shy  ef- 
fusiveness of  a  boy  lover  of  eighteen, 

"  Why  —  it  isn't  you,  is  it  ?  I  told  him  to  ask  for 
you,  but  I  didn't  dare  to  hope  —  And  it's  really 
you!  " 

"  Guess  it  is !  "  chuckled  the  old  lady  delicately.  "  I 
—  somehow  — " 

She  blushed  and  hesitated.  Then  she  frowned  —  oh, 
such  a  portentous  frown !  —  as  she  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  she  was  a  nurse  in  the  service  of  U.  S.  A., 
and  said  severely: 

"Who's  the  patient?" 

"  It's  —  my  —  son,"  faltered  Dad. 

"  Oh,  my  dear!  Has  he  —  bullied  you  again  as  he 
used  to  ?  "  she  said,  with  the  quick,  familiar  affection  of 
two  who  have  gone  through  the  same  trials  together. 

"  No,  ma'am ;  he's  never  done  that,  I  shouldn't  say. 
But  somehow  we  do  seem  a  little  nearer  together  now." 

"  Let  me  take  a  look  at  him." 

As  she  entered  the  cottage  the  dusty,  mildewed  air 


194  ;'DAD" 

seemed  to  shiver  with  a  crisp  and  delicate  fragrance  of 
lavender. 

And  as  her  nimble,  slender  fingers,  with  their  one  ring 
—  a  worn,  thin  band  of  chased  gold  —  passed  softly 
over  Joseph's  brow,  the  room  seemed  to  change  from  a 
battle  hospital  to  a  home  of  mother  love. 

"  He's  doing  fine,"  she  smiled.  "  Did  you  put  on 
those  bandages  ?  " 

"  Yessum !  "  mumbled  Captain  Dadd,  again  shy  and 
anxiously  wondering  if  he  by  chance  had  been  so  for- 
tunate as  to  put  them  on  properly. 

"  Needn't  be  so  frightened,  child,"  she  laughed. 
**  They're  very  nice  —  very  nice,  indeed.  All  I'll  need 
to  do  will  be  to  watch  him  and  change  them  in  an  hour 
or  two." 

Then  she  stopped,  and  blushed  again,  and  fidgeted 
with  the  pillow.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  cot  Dad 
fidgeted  with  his  collar  and  looked  embarrassed  and 
wished  he  could  think  of  something  to  say. 

While  the  superior  Private  Joseph  Brinton  said 
nothing  at  all,  Jimmie  stared  with  wonder  at  the  sud- 
den silence  that  had  come  upon  his  beloved  Dad  and 
the  dear  lady  of  the  rosy  cheeks. 

"  Uh ! "  said  Dad,  who  really  believed  that  he  was 
going  to  say  something  sound  and  valuable  about  the 
weather. 

But,  as  it  occurred  to  him  that,  on  the  whole,  it  was 
rather  foolish  to  talk  about  the  weather  in  a  day  of  bat- 
tles and  sudden  death,  he  didn't  get  beyond  the 
**  Uh  — ^"  only,  stopped  and  looked  slightly  foolish. 


THE  AFTERGLOW  195 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Sessions  wistfully,  glancing  in- 
voluntarily at  the  door. 

Dad  peeped  at  the  face  of  Joseph.  He  was  wishing 
that  he  could  take  charge  of  things.  But  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  formidable  son  dared  he  say  to  Mrs.  Ses- 
sions all  the  things  he  wanted  to  —  things  that  had 
rung  through  his  brain  in  lonely  nights  of  marching 
and  hot  noons  of  battle? 

It  was  Jimmie  who  solved  their  shyness. 

"  Say,  gee,  if  you  want  to  talk,  why  don't  you  gVan 
outdoors  and  do  it.?  I'll  look  after  father  while  you're 
gone ;  and  do  it  as  well  as  you  can,  I  guess." 

And  Dad,  not  daring  even  to  glance  at  Joseph  for 
approval  or  scorn,  offered  his  arm  with  slow  and 
stately  old-world  deference  to  Mrs.  Sessions,  and  they 
passed  thus  together  quietly  out  of  the  door. 

Down  by  the  spring  towered  a  great  laurel,  which 
shut  off  the  waves  of  heat  that  were  dancing  their  devil- 
dance  across  the  hot  fields.  Under  it  was  a  weather- 
grayed  wooden  bench  carved  with  initials  and  rude 
heart-symbols  of  lovers  long  since  forgotten. 

Dad  led  the  little  lady  to  the  bench.  And  she  sat 
there,  panting  with  her  recent  exertions,  but  smiling 
up  at  him  as  he  stood  shyly  fingering  the  hilt  of  the 
sword  she  had  given  him. 

"  So  you're  a  captain  —  a  captain!  "  she  said,  look- 
ing proudly  at  his  shoulder  insignia,  shiny  and  new  on 
the  worn  blue  coat  that  had  served  him  for  strenuous 
months. 

"  Yessum  —  and  —  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  time  and 


196  "  DAD '' 

time,  that  I  owe  a  lot  of  it  to  you.  I  don't  really  care 
so  very  much  whether  I'm  captain  or  general  or  high 
private,  so  long  as  I'm  serving  this  country  of  ours ; 
except  that  perhaps  as  an  officer  I'm  able  to  use  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  technical  knowledge  of  military  tactics 
which  it  has  been  my  hobby  to  acquire.  But  whatever 
I  have  done  has  largely,  I  think,  been  done  because  you 
regarded  me  as  a  Tnan  —  not  jui^t  as  an  old  man  —  and 
gave  me  this  sword  as  a  symbol  of  your  belief." 

Suddenly  the  old  lady  pulled  out  of  the  tiny  pocket 
of  her  nurse's  costume  a  frail  lavender-scented  handker- 
chief and  wiped  her  eyes.  Reaching  up  her  hand,  she 
squeezed  the  mighty  gnarled  hand  of  Dad. 

That  was  her  only  answer. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment.  All  about  them 
swirled  the  heat,  while  the  shrill  of  the  locusts  was  like 
a  wall  of  sound,  pierced  only  by  the  very  far-ofF  clank- 
ing of  artillery  harnesses,  and  once  or  twice  by  the 
faint,  creepy  boom  of  a  cannon. 

And  into  that  silence  stole  a  feeling  that  they  had 
known  each  other  always.  They  did  not  have  youth's 
slow,  diffident  reticences.  They  had  lived  and  learned 
that  when  one  finds  an  understanding  heart  it  must  be 
linked  to  one's  own  very  quickly  and  surely. 

"  You  have  —  I  am  glad  it  has  helped  you,"  she  said 
softly. 

For  answer  he  bent  his  head  and  reverently  kisseid 
her  hand. 

"  And  your  son  —  you  are  a  little  closer  together  ?  " 
she  asked. 


THE  AFTERGLOW  197 

"  Yes.  I  am  more  glad  than  I  could  tell  you,  ma'am, 
to  say  that  we  are." 

"  And  I  love  your  grandson.  Dear  boy,  he  told  me 
that  he  would  take  care  of  me.  And  do  you  know,  I 
didn't  feel  a  bit  like  laughing  at  the  tiny  fellow,  because 
I  felt  as  though  it  were  you  speaking." 

"  You  knew  him  then,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  spoke  your  name  and  —  you  mustn't  go 
and  think  that  you're  the  only  one  who  has  been  influ- 
enced by  things. 

"  There,  now !  Laws !  Laws !  These  men  folks ! 
They  will  always  be  taking  the  high  and  sacred  rights 
for  themselves,  while  of  course  we  poor  women  just  sit 
home  and  keep  the  wood-box  filled  and  pick  lint  and 
don't  have  any  high  aspirations.  Of  course  my  mother 
back  in  Wilbr'am  never  wanted  to  do  anything  but  cook 
father's  vittles.     Oh,  no  !  " 

Her  thin,  charming  little  voice  pretended  to  be  very 
severe,  but  somehow  Dad  didn't  mind  it.  Indeed,  he 
grinned  a  lively,  happy,  young  little  grin  as  he  sat  down 
beside  her  while  she  ran  on. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  you  had  just  as  much  in- 
fluence over  me  as  I  had  over  you.  I  got  thinking  that 
it  was  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  that  I  should  be  there  at 
home  just  sitting  and  holding  my  hands  that  the  good 
Lord  gave  me  to  do  something  with,  when  you  were  out 
fighting  for  your  country.  So  I  up  and  enlisted  as  a 
nurse. 

"  I  did!  Land  o'  Goshen,  if  I  hadn't  I  guess  it'd  'a' 
pretty  near  driven  me  into  high  strikes  to  sit  there  day 


198  "  DAD  " 

after  day  while  you  were  riding  off,  land  knows  where, 
being  shot  and  never,  never  changing  your  shoes  and 
socks,  no  matter  how  wet  they  got !  "  ^ 

Dad's  hand  had  slipped  along  the  worn  old  seat  of 
many  lovers  toward  hers,  where  it  lay  pink  and  soft  and 
everlastingly   capable   against   the   weather-gray   pine. 

"  So,"  she  went  on,  "  I  just  went  out  and  enlisted  as 
a  nurse.  But  what  do  you  think?  That  snippet  of  a 
little  lieutenant  —  and  he's  just  a  doctor,  and  no  more 
of  a  lieutenant  than  I  am  —  he  that  was  in  charge  of 
the  nurses  —  he  wa'n't  going  to  let  me  come  when  you 
called  for  me,  and  I  just  up  and  went.  Captain,  can't 
you  speak  to  him,  you  being  his  superior  officer  and  all, 
and  tell  him  he  mustn't  be  so  high  and  mighty  to  women 
old  enough  to  be  his  mother?  " 

She  seemed  to  take  him  for  the  commander  of  all 
men  —  the  man  who  had  arranged  everything  and  made 
everything  just  and  good. 

It  was  balm  to  Dad.  Yet  he  said :  "  I'm  afraid  you 
were  very  insubordinate,  Mrs. — " 

He  hesitated  a  little.  The  words  tripped  over  one 
another  in  his  throat.  Then  he  brought  out,  roundly 
and  commandingly : 

^'  Ma'am,  it  isn't  right  we  should  go  on  mistering 
each  other  when  we've  been  such  good  friends  and  all, 
and  —  my  name's  James." 

"  And  mine,"  said  she  softly,  "  is  Emily." 

Silence  again. 

His  hand  had  strayed  over  to  hers,  and  suddenly 


THE  AFTERGLOW  199 

hers  curled  into  a  little  ball,  and  his  brown,  strong  hand 
closed  over  it  protectingly. 

"  Emily,"  he  half-whispered,  "  you  didn't  quite  for- 
get me." 

"  No,"  she  whispered  back. 

"  And  you  don't  think  I'm  just  a  drunken  old  — ^^ 

"  Oh,  my  dear  —  oh,  no,  no! "  she  half -sobbed. 
*^  You're  a  good  man.  You  have  loved  God,  and  now, 
in  the  day  of  need,  He  has  not  forgotten  His  servant." 

"  Emily  — " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    ATTACK 

* '  T7^ A-ATHER !  "  rang  out  a  querulous  voice  from 

•■•       the  cottage. 

"  Drat  that  child ! "  said  Mrs,  Sessions  almost  vi- 
ciously. "  James,  I'll  give  your  boy  Joseph  an  earful. 
He's  a  fretful,  suspicious  fellow,  and  if  'twa'n't  for  his 
father  and  his  son  I'd  nurse  him  with  a  field  battery,  I 
would." 

But  she  marched  into  the  cottage.  She  turned  Bat- 
tle Jimmie  out  to  talk  to  Dad.  She  changed  bandages 
and  tenderly  smoothed  Joseph's  head,  through  which 
the  pains  were  shooting  like  heat  lightning,  and  on  th»> 
little  old  cannon-ball  stove  in  the  corner  made  him  toast 
out  of  a  piece  of  army  hardtack  she  found  and  split. 

Then  she  sat  down  beside  the  cot  and  straightway 
began : 

"  Joseph  —  I  s'pose  you're  *  Mr.  Brinton  '  to  them 
that  works  for  you;  but  I'm  older  than  you,  my  dear, 
besides  being  your  nurse.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  while 
I  have  the  chance  that  if  you  weren't  so  badly  wounded 
I'd  want  to  take  and  spank  you  like  a  house  afire  for 
always   being   so    snippy   to   that   splendid   father   of 

yours.     Why,  if  I  wasn't  just  an  old,  old  woman,  I'd 

200 


THE  ATTACK  201 

be  tempted  to  fall  in  love  with  him  right  here  on  the 
spot,  I  would.'* 

She  chuckled  comfortably  and  patted  the  wounded 
man's  hand.  And  right  there  Joseph  Brinton  made  a 
mistake  which,  if  duplicated  in  his  business,  would  have 
ruined  the  same  beyond  recall. 

We  all  of  us,  when  we  are  ill,  feel  that  the  world  owes 
us  the  privilege  of  being  querulous  about  our  pet  griev- 
ances ;  and  Joseph  now  lifted  his  voice  and  complained : 

"  I  can't  understand  why  you  make  all  this  fuss  over 
my  father.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  trouble  I've  had 
all  these  years  in  caring  for  him,  and  the  shame  he's  so 
often  brought  on  me — " 

Emily  Sessions  changed  instantly  from  a  kindly  and 
wise,  though  easy-going,  nurse  into  a  small,  almost 
youthful,  spitfire. 

"  D'  you  ever  see  a  Newfoundland  dog.^  '*  she 
snapped. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  said  wonderingly. 

"  A  big,  gentle,  kind,  self-respecting  Newfoundland 
dog?  » 

**  Why,  yes  —  I  suppose  so." 

"  Suppose!    Don't  you  suppose  me  any  supposes ! " 

«  Well,  then,  I  have.     Though  why  — " 

"  Well,  now,  tell  me,"  she  demanded,  sitting  more  and 
more  erect,  "  if  you  ever  saw  a  terrier  pup  trying  to  dig 
out  a  gopher  and  busy  as  he  could  be,  and  lands!  no 
more  chance  of  catching  that  gopher  than  if  he  was  a 
hundred  miles  away." 

"Yes.     But—" 


202  "  DAD  " 

"  Well,  then,  that's  your  father  and  you.  He's  the 
Newfoundland;  and  you're  the  little  rat  of  a  terrier 
that's  always  been  so  busy  with  his  o\Ai  self-important 
concerns  that  — " 

"  The  Conf eds  are  coming ! "  shrilled  a  voice  at  the 
door. 

It  was  Battle  Jimmie,  outlined  against  the  heat-trem- 
bling outdoors. 

"  What  ?  "  groaned  Emily  Sessions. 

"  Squadron  of  Reb  cavalry  riding  hell-bent-for- 
leather  toward  us,"  cried  Jimmie  and  disappeared. 

The  old  lady  ran  toward  the  doorway. 

"  Don't  leave  me !  "  begged  the  wounded  man ;  but 
she  disappeared. 

Outside  she  found  Captain  Dadd  standing  quietly 
under  the  big  locust-tree,  gazing  tranquilly  down  the 
turnpike,  where  a  gallop  of  horses'  hoofs  rang  out 
from  a  cloud  of  dust,  through  which  gray  uniforms  now 
and  then  flashed  forth. 

Quiet  he  stood,  but  expectant,  and  his  sword  hung 
by  its  strap  from  his  right  hand,  while  even  as  Mrs. 
Sessions  looked  she  saw  him  gently  lift  the  butt  of  his 
Colt's  to  see  if  it  was  loose  in  the  holster. 

She  ran  up  beside  him  and  clutched  his  arm.  He 
looked  down  at  her,  smiled  quietly,  and  even  more 
quietly  put  his  arm  about  her  slender  waist.  She 
nodded. 

Jimmie  stood  beside  them,  in  his  hand  a  huge  .44  — 
resurrected,  like  the  bayonet,  from  the  stricken  field. 

And  so  they  waited. 


THE  ATTACK  ^03 

The  Confederate  troop  came  swinging  up  the  turn- 
pike ;  lean,  capable,  hard-bitten  men  on  a  raid. 

"Halt!" 

They  drew  up  at  the  gate,  with  a  scrabble  of  hoofs 
and  a  confusion  of  horses'  bodies. 

"  Take  that  man  and  boy  prisoner,"  came  the  voice 
from  the  big,  black-bearded  man  at  the  head  —  a  man 
with  the  bars  of  a  captain. 

Four  troopers  spurred  into  the  yard  and  approached. 

"  Shoot  till  they  get  us,"  ordered  Captain  Dadd. 
*'  Better  anything  than  a  Southern  military  prison. 
Especially  for  Joe  when  he's  wounded.  Good  luck, 
Emily;  good  luck,  Jimmie.  Stand  behind  that  tree 
there,  Emily  dear.  They're  real  men.  They  won't 
pester  you.     Careful  aim,  Jimmie.     Let  'er  go !  " 

The  revolvers  of  two  men  —  one  a  boy  and  one  gray 
of  hair,  but  men  both  —  rang  out  together. 

Two  troopers,  now  but  ten  feet  away,  swayed  in  the 
saddle  and  one  very  quietly  slid  off. 

Again  rang  the  revolvers,  but  before  anyone  could 
tell  whether  the  shots  had  taken  effect,  the  whole  troop 
came  hurtling  up  the  lane,  and  thundering,  whirling 
around  them,  caught  at  the  two. 

A  swift  down-swoop  by  the  black-bearded  captain  of 
Southern  cavalry,  and  a  revolver  butt  laid  Captain 
Dadd  out  senseless  and  bleeding. 

A  quick  twirl  of  a  halter  and  Jimmie  was  swung  up  to 
a  trooper's  saddle,  kicking,  but  helpless.  A  nasty  sa- 
ber scratch  was  across  the  lad's  forehead. 

The  old  lady  was  left  alone  beside  the  fallen  body  of 


204?  "  DAD '' 

Dad.  She  knelt  ^beside  him  with  great  tears  in  her  eyes, 
her  voice  keening  the  world-old  sob  of  sorrow  that  brave 
women  give  their  dying  lovers.  ^ 

Nurse  as  she  was,  she  did  not  now  stop  to  realize 
that  a  blow  from  a  pistol  butt  is  far  more  likely  to  stun 
than  to  kill. 

The  captain  of  Confederate  cavalry  swung  oflF  his 
horse  and  looked  in  at  the  doorway. 

Emily  Sessions,  frantically  kissing  the  forehead  of 
Dad,  didn't  hear,  but  within  the  cottage  the  erstwhile 
sedate  Joseph  Brinton  staggered  from  his  bed,  dizzy 
with  pain,  and  snarled  out  hysterically : 

"  You  get  the  hell  out  of  here !  '* 

The  huge,  black-bearded  captain  merely  smiled  and, 
mounting,  rode  back  along  the  lane  toward  the  high- 
road. 

He  stopped  so  suddenly  that  the  horse  of  the  trooper 
behind  almost  piled  up  on  the  haunches  of  the  captain's 
horse. 

Facing  the  Confederates  in  the  lane,  standing  beside 
the  body  of  her  wounded,  stood  an  old  lady  steadily 
and  ferociously  aiming  a  huge  .44. 

Beside  her,  bristling  and  fearless,  was  another  adver- 
sary—  Emperor  Napoleon  Bonaparte  Dog,  who  was 
tearing  his  little  heart  out  as  he  leaped  up,  trying  to 
reach  the  boot  of  the  trooper  who  firmly  held  the  still 
struggling  and  kicking  Jimmie. 

"  You  stop !  "  demanded  Emily  Sessions. 

Gone  was  the  rosy  and  placid  look  of  her.  Very  old 
and  very  terrible  were  her  cold  eyes.     She  seemed  to 


THE  ATTACK  205 

glare  into  the  eyes  of  death,  but  gallantly ;  and  she  had 
drawn  a  bead  full  on  the  captain's  heart. 

Rather  whimsically  smiling,  the  black-bearded  cap- 
tain held  up  both  his  hands,  crying  "  Halt ! "  to  his 
troop,  who  obeyed  the  command  in  somewhat  amused 
wonder. 

"  You  needn't  to  smile  so  nice  as  all  that,"  snapped 
the  old  lady.  "  I've  half  a  mind  to  shoot  you.  And 
you  tell  that  man  of  yours  to  let  Jimmie  go.  You  got 
the  captain,  but  you  ain't  goin'  to  get  Jimmie,  too ! " 

And  then  she  felt  around  her  shoulders  the  iron  arm 
of  one  of  the  Confederate  troopers,  whose  horse  had 
been  concealed  by  the  cottage,  but  who  had  slipped 
round  in  back  of  her. 

Desperately  she  tried  to  turn  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
on  him,  but  his  strong  hand  slipped  down  on  her  arm, 
caught  the  revolver  and  wrenched  it  from  her. 

She  faced  the  captain  again,  her  shoulders  up, 
ready. 

"  Tell  your  murderers  to  finish  me,  too,"  she  said. 

The  captain  of  cavalry,  for  all  his  big  bulk,  slipped 
from  his  horse  as  easily  as  a  youngster  dismounting  be- 
fore his  sweetheart. 

"  Ma'am,"  he  said,  "  we're  soldiers,  but  Ah  reckon 
we  ain't  quite  murderers.  Mah  mother's  a  powerful  lot 
like  you,  ma'am,  and  Ah  reckon  Ah  love  her  most 's  well 
most  sons  do.  Sanders,  let  that  boy  go.  And  Ah  hope 
your  husband  ain't  killed,  ma'am.  And,  ma'am.  Ah 
reckon  you're  a  praying  woman  —  will  you  think  of 
my  mother  to-night  when  you  say  your  prayers  ?    Last 


206  "  DAD '' 

Ah  heard,  there  was  a  right  smart  o'  Yanks  burnin'  an' 
raidin'  near  her  house,  an' — 

"  Mount !     Ride !     Trot !  " 

Standing  in  the  lane,  watching  the  bunch  of  Confed- 
erate cavalry  go  swirling  along  the  turnpike,  bound  on 
a  raid  right  for  the  Federal  lines,  the  old  lady  suddenly 
bent  back  her  shoulders  and  saluted. 

And  the  boy  Jimmie,  beside  her,  saluted  their  dust- 
hidden  troop  with  her. 

Then  immediately: 

"  Take  his  feet,  Jim  dear.  He  ain't  dead.  I  hear 
his  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Sessions. 

And  stooping,  straining,  she  lifted  Dad's  shoulders. 

They  bore  him  into  the  house.  She  ordered  Joseph 
peremptorily  to  move  to  the  corner,  where  she  laid  out 
a  "  comfortable  "  for  him  to  lie  on,  and  she  straight- 
ened out  the  still  form  of  Dad  on  the  cot. 

"  Bring  water,  Jim !  "  she  commanded  almost  harshly. 

The  boy  sped  back  down  the  lane  with  a  can  of  cool 
water,  and  she  sat  bathing  Dad's  head,  sobbing  softly, 
but  always  with  a  pitiful,  artificial,  unreal,  golden  little 
smile  ready  to  spring  out  if  he  should  come  to  conscious- 
ness. 

The  Confederate  captain  had  called  Dad  her  husband. 
She  caught  herself  trembling  with  a  soft,  happy  little 
emotion,  which  died  swiftly  as  she  realized  that  Dad 
might  —  might  never  speak  to  her  again. 

In  a  comer  of  the  room  Jimmie  stood  anxiously 
watching  beside  the  recumbent  Joseph.  He  looked 
down.     His  father  was  looking  up  as  anxiously. 


THE  ATTACK  SOT 

Suddenly  all  their  former  lack  of  sympathy  for  one 
another  was  forgotten. 

"  Dad  —  grandad  — "  gasped  the  boy. 

It  was  all  he  could  say,  but  it  expressed  many  things 
—  and  Joseph  Brinton  understood  them. 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  said  he  gently,  and  stroked  his  son's 
hair. 

The  silent,  grim  woman  by  the  bed  still  watched  and 
her  lips  moved  in  many  prayers  —  prayers  that  Dad 
might  recover  —  a  prayer,  too,  for  the  mother  of  the 
Confederate  captain. 

More  than  an  hour  passed.  Dad's  heart  stiir  beat, 
evenly,  soundly,  but  he  did  not  awaken. 

Perhaps  he  would  not,  dreaded  the  old  lady.  A  pas- 
sionate tenderness  came  over  her.  She  crossed  to  the 
corner  where  sat  Jimmie  and  Joseph,  and  with  soft 
words  made  her  peace  with  Joseph  and  renewed  his 
bandages. 

Jimmie's  hand  she  patted.  She  went  to  the  door  and 
snapped  her  fingers  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte  Dog,  who 
was  lying  in  the  shade  by  the  doorstone,  but  awake, 
ready  for  his  little  god  to  come  out  of  the  cottage 
again. 

Napoleon  jumped  up  and  came  running.  Emily 
tossed  him  a  corner  of  hardtack. 

As  she  swiftly  stepped  to  Dad's  cot  again  she  found 
him  lying  awake,  his  eyes  on  her,  filled  with  a  great, 
soft-shining  reverence. 

She  knelt  by  the  bed. 

"  All  right  ?  "  she  whispered. 


208  "DAD'* 

"  Yes,  Emily .'• 

Then  their  cheeks  were  together. 

All  at  once  Mrs.  Sessions  sprang  up  and  snapped 
out: 

**  Well,  I  declare !  We're  a  fine  lot.  Jimmie,  you 
go  out  and  get  me  some  fresh  water.  Never  see  such  a 
shiftless  lot  as  we  are.** 

And  up  the  road  jingled  the  slow-moving  hospital 
wagons. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A    LOST    BUEDEN 

DAD,  his  trifling  hurts  nearly  well  again,  stood  at 
attention  in  General  Hooker's  new  headquarters 
across  the  Maryland  border. 

Thither,  almost  as  soon  as  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
had  mobilized  in  Maryland,  he  had  been  summoned. 

The  corps  commander,  for  a  miracle,  had  been  as 
honest  as  he  was  inexpert,  silnd  had  made  full  report 
to  General  McClellan,  through  Hooker,  of  the  part 
Dad  had  played  in  drawing  forth  the  endangered  demi- 
corps  from  the  Confederate  trap  during  the  retreat 
from  Virginia. 

With  the  result  that  Captain  James  Dadd  found  him- 
self promoted  to  the  rank  of  brevet-major,  and  found 
himself  incidentally  the  day's  hero  of  his  corps.  The 
latter  honor  he  shared  with  his  grandson,  who,  as  Bat- 
tle Jimmie,  was  enthusiastically  adopted  by  the  officers 
and  men  alike. 

The  two  chums  bore  their  laurels  with  a  similar  and 
schoolboy  sheepishness,  seeking  to  hide  as  much  as  pos- 
sible from  the  noisy  adulation  that  was  their  meed. 

And  now,  in  the  thick  of  it  all,  came  the  summons 
from  Hooker.  As  Dad  stood  in  Fighting  Joe's  pres- 
ence once  more  he  recalled  keenly  his  first  interview 


210  "  DAD  " 

with  the  eccentric  fire-eater,  when,  despite  his  error  in 
failing  to  be  captured,  he  had  won  the  general's  ap- 
proval and  his  own  first  commission.  ' 

This  time  he  found  Hooker  dictating  to  a  military 
secretary  on  the  porch  of  a  farmhouse.  Hooker  dis- 
missed the  secretary  with  a  nod  and  turned  to  the  wait- 
ing officer.  / 

"  Maj  or  Dadd,"  he  began  abruptly,  "  General  Mc- 
Clellan  has  asked  me  to  thank  you  personally,  in  his 
name,  for  your  share  in  the  affair  of  last  week.  Which 
I  herewith  do.  That  ends  my  official  business  with  you 
at  the  moment.  But  I  would  like  to  add  a  question  or 
so  on  my  own  account — -questions  you  are  not  bound 
to  answer  unless  you  choose." 

He  hesitated,  then  went  on: 

"  I  am  told  that  several  of  the  officers  of  your  corps 
planned  a  little  supper  in  your  honor  a  night  or  two 
ago  to  celebrate  your  promotion  and  its  cause  —  also, 
that  you  refused  to  attend  it. 

"  May  I  ask  why  you  offered  this  slight  to  them  ? 

"  I  repeat  —  you  need  not  answer  unless  you  wish 
to  do  so." 

"Slight?"  Dad  caught  up  the  word.  "I  — I 
surely  did  not  intend  it  so,  sir.  And  I'm  heartily  sorry 
they  took  it  as  such.  I  made  my  refusal  as  courteous 
as  I  could.     And  — " 

^'  But  why  did  you  refuse  ?  " 

**  I  had  done  nothing  worthy  of  any  special  ovation," 
evaded  Dad. 

Hooker  frowned. 


A  LOST  BURDEN  211 

*'  Modesty  is  supposed  to  be  an  excellent  quality," 
said  he,  "  though  for  my  own  part  I  could  never  see 
any  particular  use  for  it.  But  false  modesty  is  ab- 
surd. You  know  well  enough  the  worth  of  what  you 
did.  Also,  you  are  dodging  the  issue.  That  surely 
was  not  your  reason  for  refusing  a  courtesy  tendered 
you  by  your  brother  officers." 

"  No,  sir,"  assented  Dad  simply.  "  It  was  not.  I 
refused  because  —  because  there  was  certain  to  be  more 
or  less  drinking.     And — " 

^'  And,  as  the  guest  of  honor,  you  might  have  had 
to  get  very  pleasantly  drunk?  Or  are  you  a  temper- 
ance devotee?  " 

"  Neither,  sir.  I  would  probably  have  been  foolish 
enough  to  drink.  And  then  —  all  I  have  been  striving 
for  this  past  year  would  have  gone  for  nothing.  I  was 
afraid.     So  I  ran  away  from  the  danger." 

Hooker  was  eying  him  narrowly. 

"  You  couldn't  trust  yourself  where  drink  was  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  corrected  Dad.  "  I  only  say 
it  was  safer  for  me  not  to.     That's  why  I  refused." 

**  You  have  not  the  look  of  a  man  who  has  been  a 
heavy  drinker,"  said  Hooker,  noting  the  lean  and  mus- 
cular figure,  the  clear  and  level  eyes,  the  firm  mouth. 

Dad  made  no  comment. 

Hooker  spoke  again. 

"  There  is  much  curiosity  about  you  in  your  corps. 
Major  Dadd,"  said  he.  "And  while  I  have  no  wish 
to  pry  into  any  man's  personal  affairs,  yet  the  inter- 
ests of  all  my  officers  are  close  to  me.     And  I  do  not 


212  «  DAD  " 

like  to  have  rumors  about  them  spread  among  the  men. 
Soldiers  are  worse  gossips  than  spinsters. 

"  Your  action  in  last  week's  affair  was  not  like  that 
of  a  man  recently  promoted  from  the  ranks  —  a  man 
who,  until  a  year  or  so  ago,  was  a  mere  civilian.  The 
tactics  you  made  use  of  in  extricating  your  demi-corps 
from  a  bad  comer  were  those  of  a  strategist.  Other 
officers  are  commenting  on  that." 

He  paused. 

Dad  looked  at  him  miserably.  The  past  that  he 
had  so  carefully  buried  was  stirring  in  its  grave.  The 
old  disgrace  threatened  to  rise,  to  rob  him  of  all  he  had 
so  hardly  earned. 

Where  there  was  gossip  and  curiosity  there  was  fairly 
certain  to  be  plenty  of  amateur  investigation.  And  in- 
vestigation might  readily  unearth  the  truth.  There 
were  many  men  in  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  who  had 
served  in  Mexico. 

"  Is  there  any  good  reason  for  concealing  the  fact 
that  you  had  held  a  commission  before  this  present 
war  ?  '*  went  on  the  general.  "  It  was  clear  to  me  the 
first  day  I  saw  you.  I  knew  it  by  the  way  you  drew 
your  sword.  Let  me  say  again  that  I  have  no  wish 
to  break  in  upon  any  man's  privacy.  But  I  wish  you 
to  know  that  others  are  asking  questions.  And  to  tell 
you  that  the  truth  often  stops  the  circulation  of  such 
rumors  as  you  might  not  care  to  have  circulated.'' 

"Rumors?" 

"  One  is  that  you  deserted  from  the  army  at  some 
earlier  time  and  that  — " 


A  LOST  BURDEN  213 

"  Pardon  me,  general,"  interposed  Dad  stiffly,  "  but 
if  you  can  persuade  the  man  who  voiced  such  a  lie  to 
face  me  with  it,  I  shall  be  your  debtor," 

"  Who  can  nail  army  gossip  ?  One  man  guesses  at 
a  thing  to-day.  To-morrow  fifty  men  are  quoting  it 
as  a  proven  fact. 

"  I  like  you,  Dadd.  You  are  a  good  deal  of  a  man. 
That  is  why  I  have  bothered  to  advise  you  in  this  mat- 
ter. Not  officially,  but  as  man  to  man.  If  you  do  not 
care  to  speak  I  have  no  wish  to  urge  you.     That  is  all." 

He  turned  back  to  a  notebook  in  which  close-scrawled 
hieroglyphics  crammed  every  page.  Dad  saluted, 
turned,  and  walked  away. 

At  the  top  step  of  the  porch  Dad  halted,  wheeled 
and,  on  impulse,  returned  to  the  table  where  Hooker 
lounged. 

"  I  thank  you,  general,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a  rush, 
as  though  fearing  to  lose  hold  on  his  new-made  re- 
solve. "  It  was  kind  of  you  to  take  an  interest  in  me, 
and  I  am  sorry  if  I  seemed  ungracious.  I  —  I  served 
for  more  than  two  years  in  the  United  States  army,  in 
the  Mexican  War.  I  was  a  lieutenant-colonel  of  cav- 
alry and  I  was  afterward  attached  to  General  Taylor's 
stafF." 

Hooker  looked  up  in  quick  interest.  Speaking  from 
an  almost  phenomenal  memory  of  American  war-his- 
tory, he  hastily  interjected: 

"  There  was  no  officer  on  Taylor's  staff  —  and  no 
commissioned  officer  in  the  Mexican  War  —  named 
James  Dadd.     I  will  stake  my  reputation  on  that." 


814  "DAD" 

"  No,  sir.  ^  Dadd  '  is  not  my  name.  I  —  I  assumed 
it  when  I  reentered  the  service." 

"But  why,  man,  why?  Surely  you  knew  that  com- 
missioned officers  with  military  experience  were  at  a 
premium  when  the  Civil  War  began,  and  that  they  were 
certain  of  promotion.  Look  at  the  men  in  the  army 
who  have  had  war  experience  and  how  they  have  risen. 
Dozens  of  them." 

"  I  enlisted  under  an  assumed  name,"  said  Dad 
slowly  and  forcing  each  word  from  his  whitened  lips, 
"  because  I  did  not  believe  I  would  be  accepted  under 
my  own  name." 

"But  why.?  With  a  war  record —  By  the  way, 
if  it  is  a  fair  question,  what  is  your  name?  " 

"  My  name,"  said  Dad,  bidding  farewell  to  hope,  "  is 
James  Brinton." 

"Brinton?"  repeated  Hooker  reflectively.  "Brin- 
ton?" 

He  was  evidently  racking  his  brain.  And  presently 
he  found  what  he  sought.    For  he  glanced  up,  wide-eyed. 

"  Not  —  not  the  Brinton  who  — " 

"  Who  was  kicked  out  of  the  army  for  drunkenness 
and  for  grossly  insulting  the  general  commanding," 
supplemented  Dad,  his  voice  dead  as  though  he  were 
reciting  some  entirely  impersonal  fact. 

"  I  remember,"  said  Hooker  briefly. 

Then  fell  a  pause.  The  two  men  were  eying  each 
other.  Hooker's  face  a  mask;  Dad's  white  and 
wretched.     It  was  Dad  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  will  wish  —  General  McClellan  will  wish  —  my^ 


A  LOST  BURDEN  215 

resignation  ?  "  he  said  haltingly.  "  It  irks  me  to  beg 
a  favor  of  any  man,  sir.  But  I  entreat  you  not  to 
drive  me  from  the  army.  You  can  take  away  my  com- 
mission if  it  seems  best  to  you.  But  let  me  serve  in 
the  ranks. 

"  If  I  did  wrong  I  have  paid  for  it.  Paid  more  heav- 
ily than  I  have  words  to  tell  you  or  than  you  would 
care  to  hear. 

"  I  do  not  ask  anything  except  leave  to  serve  my 
country  at  a  time  when  she  needs  every  man  she  can 
get.  Drunkards,  thieves,  blackguards  are  recruited  in 
every  regiment  nowadays  and  no  questions  are  asked. 
May  I  not  serve,  too?  If  I  have  forfeited  a  right  to 
my  commission,  at  least  let  me  — " 

"Major  Dadd,"  interposed  Hooker,  his  voice  harsh 
and  more  abrupt  than  ever,  "  you  talk  like  a  fool. 
You  have  brooded  over  a  silly  piece  of  ancient  history 
till  it  has  made  you  lose  all  judgment. 

"  Why,  man,"  he  broke  out  angrily,  "  what  in  blazes 
does  Uncle  Sam  care  about  your  getting  drunk  fifteen 
years  ago  and  telling  old  Fuss-and-Feathers  what  you 
thought  of  him.f^  Many  a  perfectly  sober  man  has  said 
worse  things  of  poor  old  Scott." 

"  But  —  but,  sir  — " 

"  But  nothing !  Here  you've  been  doing  a  real 
man's  work  for  a  year  or  more  and  getting  none  of  the 
benefits  of  it,  first  because  you  are  dunce  enough  to 
think  the  American  nation  has  nothing  to  do  but  re- 
member you  once  got  drunk!  Why,  half  the  country 
has  even  forgotten  the  Mexican  War.     And  the  other 


216  "  DAD  " 

half  doesn't  care  if  a  man  named  Brinton  chased  Scott 
with  an  ax.  Ever  hear  of  Grant  in  those  Mexican 
days?     He  was  down  there."  ^ 

"  Yes,  sir,"  stammered  Dad,  his  brain  a-whirl.  "  I  — ^" 

"  Well,  he's  doing  big  things  out  West,  just  now. 
And  some  idiot  complained  the  other  day  to  Lincoln 
that  Grant  enjoys  a  bout  with  John  Barleycorn,  now 
and  then. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  President  said?  He  said: 
*  I  wish  I  knew  what  brand  of  whisky  Grant  uses.  I'd 
buy  a  hogshead  of  it  for  every  other  general  in  the 
army.' 

"  That's  what  Lincoln  thinks  of  such  things.  And 
I,  for  one,  would  rather  be  judged  by  Abraham  Lin- 
coln than  by  any  other  man  alive.  Man,  don't  look 
so  dumfounded!  You've  been  in  a  fool  nightmare. 
Wake  up!" 

**  Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  — " 

**  I  mean  I'm  going  to  tell  your  story  to  everyone 
who  asks  me  about  you.  And  I'm  going  to  write  to 
the  President  about  it  next  time  I  send  him  a  report. 
It's  the  sort  of  story  he  likes  to  hear. 

"  Good  Lord !  Do  you  think  it's  nothing  for  a  man 
to  drop  drink  at  your  age  and  make  his  life  all  over 
afresh?  Why,  why  —  curse  it  all,  shake  hands!  And 
get  out  of  here.     I'm  busy." 

Dad  walked  away,  his  feet  on  air ;  the  angry  fuming 
of  the  general  behind  him  sounding  like  wondrous  music 
in  his  ears. 

All  at  once  he  seemed  like  Christian  in  his  favorite 


A  LOST  BURDEN  217 

"  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  to  have  dropped  from  his  shoul- 
ders a  world-heavy  burden  which  had  crushed  him  to 
earth.  All  at  once  his  terrible  secret  was  seen  by  him 
through  Hooker's  keen  eyes.  And  from  that  moment 
it  forever  lost  its  terror. 

"I  —  I  wish,"  he  murmured,  "I  wish  I  knew  just 
exactly  where  Mrs.  Sessions  is.  I'd  love  to  tell  her. 
And,  till  I  can  tell  her  —  I  guess  I'll  be  happy  over  it 
all  alone.  James  Brinton.  Lieutenant-Colonel  James 
Brinton.     Of  Taylor's  staff !  " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   THREE    COMRADES 

BREVET-MAJOR  JAMES  DADD,  of  the  Blankth 
Ohio  Infantry,  was  one  of  his  own  tent's  three 
occupants. 

Seated  cross-legged  on  a  blanket  roll  facing  the  cot 
where  sat  his  grandfather,  was  Battle  Jimmie.  Be- 
tween the  boy's  knees  reclined  the  tent's  third  inmate, 
his  Canine  Majesty,  Emperor  Napoleon  Peter  Bub 
Bonaparte  Brinton  Dog,  whose  august  title  had  been 
whittled  down  by  custom  and  verbal  necessity  to 
"  Emp." 

Emp  was  exploring  regions  of  his  yellow  back  for 
fleas,  biting  at  the  unseen  pests  with  multitudinous, 
swift  little  chattering  snaps  of  half-shut  jaws. 

"  I  wonder  just  exactly  what  breed  Emp  really  is?  " 
conjectured  Jimmie. 

"  Why,"  answered  Dad  reflectively,  ^'  I  should  say, 
at  a  broad  guess,  that  the  blood  of  the  finest  thorough- 
breds flows  in  his  veins." 

"Gee!  Honest?  What  kinds  of  thoroughbreds,  I 
wonder?  " 

"  All  kinds,"  responded  Dad  gravely. 

Jimmie  glanced  at  him  in   doubt.     But  the  man's 


THE  THREE  COMRADES  219 

face  was  solemn,  even  judicious;  and  the  boy  eyed  his 
pet  with  respect. 

To  Jimmie,  Dad's  word  was  gospel.  And  if  Dad 
declared  Emp  the  scion  of  many  thoroughbreds  there 
was  no  room  for  arguing  the  statement. 

"  H'm !  "  commented  Jimmie.  "  And  father  called 
him  a  mongrel.'^ 

"  Son,''  explained  Dad,  "  there's  two  kinds  of  folks 
in  this  funny  world  of  ours  —  the  sort  that  sees  the 
quality  of  the  various  bloods  in  a  yellow  dog,  and  the 
kind  that  sees  only  the  quantity.  Let's  you  and  I  al- 
ways try  to  see  the  quality.  We  won't  make  so  much 
money  as  those  that  see  the  quantity ;  but  we'll  have  a 
higher  regard  for  dogs  —  and  for  everything  else. 

"  Not  that  I'm  criticizing  your  father,  for  one  min- 
ute," he  added  hastily.  "  He's  a  fine  man,  and  a  son 
to  be  proud  of.  And  he'll  go  far.  But  not  as  a  sol- 
dier. 

"  Now  that  he's  been  invalided  home,  and  his  year  of 
service  is  up  anyhow,  I  guess  he'll  call  it  a  day  and  go 
back  to  the  store.  I'm  only  grateful  he  didn't  make 
you  go  with  him.  It's  where  you  ought  to  be.  I  know 
that.  But  I'd  be  awful  lonely,  Jimmie,  lad,  without 
you." 

"Why  ought  I  go  back  home?"  demanded  Jimmie. 
"  Anybody  can  go  to  school.  School  will  always  be 
there.  So  will  home.  But  maybe  the  war  won't.  And 
I  am  of  use  here.  You  said  so,  yourself.  So  did  the 
men.     Lot's  of  'em." 

"  It  isn't  what  folks   say  that  counts,"  said  Dad, 


2a0  "DAD" 

though  his  face  glowed  a  little.  "Anybody  can  get 
a  cheer  by  spectacular  work.  I'd  rather  have  you  back 
in  Ideala,  learning  the  rule  of  three,  than  fighting  be- 
cause you  like  to  have  the  boys  trundle  you  around  on 
their  shoulders  the  way  they  did  that  day  when  we  got 
back  to  the  corps  after  that  charge. 

^*  It's  nice  to  be  praised.  No  one  but  a  hypocrite 
will  say  he  doesn't  like  it.  But  it  isn't  the  real  thing 
to  work  for. 

"  The  real  thing  is  this  country  of  ours.  I  keep 
dinning  that  into  your  ears  because  I  don't  want  you 
to  forget  it  for  a  second.  We're  here  to  work  for  it, 
you  and  I.  I  had  a  hard  time  to  make  your  father 
understand.  But  at  last  he  did.  That's  why  he  let 
you  stay.  He's  changed  a  good  deal,  your  father  has, 
this  past  year.  A  year  ago  he  would  have  proven 
wisely  to  me  that  I  was  quite  wrong." 

"  A  year  ago  you  would  maybe  have  believed  him," 
suggested  Jimmie.     "Isn't  that  part  of  the  change?" 

"  Perhaps,"  mused  Dad.  "  Perhaps  so.  Jimmie, 
there  are  times  when  you  have  almost  too  much  sense. 
How  about  the  fearful  and  ghastly  wound  .^^  Is  it  get- 
ting all  right?" 

The  boy  chuckled.  The  huii:s  which  he  and  his 
grandfather  had  sustained  during  the  little  flurry  of 
attack  on  the  cottage  had  both  been  quick  of  healing. 

There  had  been  no  occasion  to  go  to  hospital;  and 
a  few  days  of  semi-invalidism  had  left  the  two  tough 
bodies  well-nigh  as  good  as  new.  Yet  each  was  daily 
in  the  habit  of  inquiry,  with  new  superlative  adjectives 


THE  THREE  COMRADES  821 

and  expressions  of  sympathy,  after  the  other's  injury. 
And  to  each  the  joke  held  a  pristine  freshness, 

"  Emp  was  the  slowest  of  us  three  to  get  on  his  legs 
again,"  said  Jimmie.  ^^  And  even  he's  all  right  now. 
Say,  I  wonder  will  he  ever  catch  that  flea?  He's  been 
hunting  for  it  and  biting  at  it  ever  since  the  day  I 
found  him." 

"Maybe  Emp's  just  four-flushing.  A  lot  of  us 
spend  our  spare  time  hunting  for  what  we  know  isn't 
there.     It  gives  us  something  to  exercise  our  mind." 

"  He  fights  that  flea  so  long  and  makes  such  little 
headway,  I've  a  good  mind  to  change  his  name  and  call 
him  General  McClellan." 

"Hush,  lad!"  warned  Dad,  half-serious,  half-jest- 
ing. "  There's  enough  criticism  all  over  without  our 
joining  in.  The  whole  country  is  hammering  little 
Mac  just  now.  And  maybe  the  whole  country's  wrong, 
or  maybe  the  whole  country's  right.  Anyhow,  neither 
the  country  nor  the  army  nor  Mac  is  the  better  for  it. 
So  don't  let's  you  and  I  add  our  lung-power  to  it. 

"  It's  easy  enough  to  sit  back  and  criticize.  But 
Little  Mac  is  where  a  word  of  praise  would  help  more. 
So  is  President  Lincoln." 

"  Dad,"  the  boy  leaned  forward  earnestly,  as  though 
consulting  an  all-wise  oracle,  "is  it  always  going  to  be 
like  this?" 

"  Like  what,  son  ?  " 

"  The  thing  that's  gone  on  all  year.  The  Confeds 
licking  us  any  time  and  any  way  they  please,  and  muss- 
ing up  all   our  plans   and   fooling  our  generals   and 


S2g  «  DAD  '* 

slipping  out  of  our  traps  and  then  belting  us  in  the 
jaw?  Are  we  always  going  to  be  the  licked  ones?  It's 
getting  just  a  little  monotonous.         ^ 

"  We  win  a  skirmish  —  or  a  little  battle,  like  the 
one  back  there  with  the  demi-corps  that  you  got  your 
brevet-ma jorship  for  —  or  same  other  small,  third- 
rate  fight.  And  then  they  go  to  work  and  thrash  us 
in  all  the  other  big  battles  and  turn  our  campaigns 
upside  down. 

"  Except  out  West.  There  our  boys  are  winning 
all  right.  But  here  we  get  all  the  lickings.  Isn't  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  good  for  anything  except  for  the 
Rebels  to  trounce?  Is  it  going  to  be  like  this  all  the 
time?     That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Dad's  face  was  very  grave  as  he  listened.  Now  he 
laid  aside  his  pipe  and  made  answer,  with  none  of  the 
former  whimsicality  in  his  voice. 

"  No,  lad.  It  won't  last  forever.  Here's  the  whole 
idea  in  just  a  mouthful  of  words :  For  years  the  South 
has  been  getting  ready.  And  for  years,  up  North, 
we've  been  saying  there'd  be  no  war.  So,  when  the  real 
fighting  began,  it  was  like  a  middleweight,  trained*  to 
the  minute,  tackling  a  great  big  lazy  giant  who  was  in 
bad  condition. 

"  The  middleweight  has  hammered  the  giant  all 
around  the  ring  in  most  of  the  fights  so  far.  But  every 
day  the  giant  is  getting  wiser  and  stronger  and  more 
used  to  fighting.  And  pretty  soon  his  weight  and 
strength  has  got  to  begin  to  tell. 

"  The  South  is  made  up  of  men  who  are  fighting  like 


THE  THREE  COMRADES  mS 

heroes.  But  there  aren't  enough  of  them,  and  they 
have  mighty  few  resources,  and  every  day  they  grow 
fewer,  and  their  resources  get  weaker.  And  the  North's 
men  and  money  will  never  give  out.  Pretty  soon  the 
difference  has  got  to  show. 

"  Be  patient.  We're  fighting  for  our  Union,  we 
Northerners.  For  the  country  that  my  grandfather 
helped  to  make  free,  and  that  my  great-grandfather 
helped  to  win  from  the  Indians  and  the  Frenchies.  And 
that  country  and  the  Union  are  going  to  last  forever; 
no  matter  how  black  the  sky  happens  to  look  just  now, 
make  up  your  mind  to  that !  " 

"  But,  see,"  urged  the  boy  impatiently ;  "  they  beat 
us  on  the  Peninsula.  And  now  Lee  and  Jackson  have 
driven  us  clean  back  to  Maryland.  And  they're  com- 
ing after  us  into  the  North,  so  the  papers  say." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Dad.  "  They're  coming  after  us 
into  the  North.  And  they  may  do  as  they  boast  and 
*  stable  their  horses  in  Boston's  Faneuil  Hall,'  before 
we  can  drive  them  back.  But  we  will  drive  them  back. 
Soon  or  late,  son.  Don't  doubt  that,  either,  for  a  min- 
ute. As  soon  as  the  giant  is  strong  enough.  And  he 
gets  stronger  every  day. 

"  They  drove  us  out  of  the  Peninsula.  And  now 
that  he's  licked  us  so  easy  on  his  own  ground,  Lee's 
getting  ready  to  try  a  turn  at  us  on  ours.  Whether 
he  can  get  past  us  or  not  — " 

"  Shucks  !  "  growled  Jimmie.  "  I'm  sick  of  waiting. 
Here,  the  war  was  started  to  free  the  slaves.  And  what 
does  Lincoln  do.'^     Hasn't  raised  a  finger  to  free  'era. 


224  "  DAD  " 

Why,  if  he'd  freed  'em  all  at  the  start,  and  then  kept 
plugging  away  at  Richmond — " 

*'  Don't  be  foolish,  son,"  exhorted  ]  Dad,  "  and  the 
foolishest  thing  on  earth  you  can  do  is  to  join  in  the 
howl  against  Mr.  Lincoln.  He's  doing  the  only  thing 
that  can  be  done.  And  he's  the  only  man  in  America 
that  can  do  it. 

"  Suppose  he'd  ordered  all  the  slaves  set  free.  What 
would  have  happened?  About  the  same  thing  that 
would  happen  if  we  ordered  the  sun  to  shine  at 
night  instead  of  in  the  day.  Nothing  does  a  boss  so 
much  harm  as  to  give  an  order  he  can't  enforce.  And 
if  he  declared  the  slaves  free  until  he  was  black  in  the 
face,  they  wouldn't  be  free.  He  must  wait  till  the  tide 
turns.  And  the  giant  begins  to  hold  his  own  against 
the  middleweight  before  he  can  give  the  order.  In  the 
meantime  — " 

"  In  the  meantime,"  said  Jimmie,  with  ponderous  sol- 
emnity, "  McCluskey  told  me  this  morning  that  the 
Third  Ambulance  Corps  came  up  last  night.  It  came 
on  the  Frederick  road.  Not  more'n  about  seven  miles 
from  here." 

''  What's  that  got  to  do  with  — " 

"  With  Mrs.  Sessions  ?  "  asked  the  boy  innocently. 
"  Nothing,  except  that  she's  quartered  with  that  corps. 
I  know.  Because  McCluskey  showed  me  the  list  of 
nurses  there." 

"  Son,"  said  Dad,  after  glaring  coldly  at  the  wholly 
unimpressed  lad  for  a  full  minute,  "  let's  go  for  a  ride. 
I'm  off  duty  for  three  hours  yet." 


THE  THREE  COMRADES  225 

**  Fine !  "  agreed  Jimmie.  "  We'll  go  any  direction 
you  like,  except,  perhaps,  toward  Frederick.  The 
scenery  isn't  as  pretty  out  that  way." 

"  Jimmie,"  observed  Dad,  "  there  are  times  when  I 
feel  that  a  spanking  would  do  you  worlds  of  good ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  IRON  CHESS-GAME 

WAR  IS  not  a  matter  of  prancing  steeds,  troops 
charging,  heroic  feats  of  arms.  These  spec- 
tacular adjuncts  typify  war  as  the  little  finger-nail  of 
one  hand  might  typify  the  whole  human  body. 

War  itself  is  a  huge  problem  in  mathematics ;  com- 
bined with  an  element  of  puzzle  and  gross  chance. 

In  short,  a  game.  An  iron  game,  more  like  chess  in 
its  general  mode  of  playing  than  any  other. 

Here  in  brief  was  the  iron  chess-game  situation  in 
the  early  autumn  of  1862;  an  all-important  crisis  in 
the  long-drawn  contest: 

Lee  had  wearied  at  last  of  acting  solely  on  the  de- 
fensive. Since  the  Civil  War's  outset,  the  Confeder- 
ates had  thus  far  contented  themselves  with  defending 
their  own  territory.  On  Virginia  fell  the  brunt  of 
the  fighting.  The  Old  Dominion  had  from  the  very 
first  been  the  chief  battleground  of  the  two  conflicting 
forces. 

There  the  South  had  won  victory  after  victory ;  with 
ludicrous  ease  defeating  its  more  numerous  and  better- 
equipped  Northern  foes.  McClellan  in  vain  had 
hurled  his  forces  against  Richmond.  In  Northern  Vir- 
ginia, at  Manassas,  the  North  had  also  been  beaten; 

226 


THE  IRON  CHESS-GAME  £^7 

there  and  nearly  everywhere  else  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  State. 

Lee,  master  strategist,  had  confuted  every  Federal 
plan.  Jackson,  by  a  wizardry  of  generalship,  had  all 
but  annihilated  various  Union  armies  in  the  mountain 
district. 

It  had  all  been  easy  conquest  for  the  South,  pre- 
pared and  self-girded  beforehand  for  the  conflict. 

And  now,  finding  the  defensive  so  simple,  Lee  had 
determined  to  take  the  aggressive;  to  cease  merely  to 
defend  his  own  and  to  strike  a  blow  at  the  very  heart 
of  the  North  to  carry  war  directly  and  vehemently  into 
the  enemy's  own  well-bulwarked  territory  itself. 

His  plan  was  clever. 

Maryland,  adjoining  Virginia  to  the  north,  had  ever 
been  loud  in  protestations  of  sympathy  to  the  South. 
The  State  had  all  but  seceded.  It  was  aiive  with  ar- 
dent Confederate  well-wishers. 

The  song  "  Maryland,  My  Maryland,"  vied  with 
"  Dixie  "  itself.  From  a  thousand  Baltimoreans  and 
other  Southern  sympathizers  Lee  had  received  word 
that  the  moment  his  armies  should  set  foot  in  Mary- 
land the  whole  State  would  rise  as  one  man  to  his  sup- 
port. 

Lee,  believing  all  this,  decided  to  invade  the  North 
by  way  of  Maryland,  where  aid  and  reenforcements  by 
the  wholesale  presumably  awaited  him.  Thence  he 
planned  to  march  straight  to  Pennsylvania,  and  so 
through  to  New  York,  and  even,  perhaps,  to  Boston 
itself. 


"  DAD  " 

Washington,  too,  might  prove  vulnerable  to  a  flank 
attack. 

In  front  of  him,  seeking  to  bar  His  way,  lay  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  sullen  from  many  beatings,  yet 
fearlessly  awaiting  a  chance  to  check  the  invader.  But 
Lee,  having  outwitted  and  outfought  that  same  army 
so  often  in  Virginia,  had  scant  doubt  he  could  do 
the  same  thing  in  Maryland. 

He  hoped  to  dodge  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  in  his 
northward  march,  forcing  it  to  follow  him  to  some 
point  where  he  could  conveniently  thrash  it  and  drive 
it  back,  demoralized.  In  such  an  event  the  whole  North 
would  lie  practically  helpless  and  paralyzed  before  him, 
and  there  would  be  no  troops  to  spare  for  a  counter 
invasion  of  Virginia. 

The  plan  was  as  simple  as  it  was  shrewd.  And  on 
September  5,  1862,  Lee  proceeded  to  put  it  into  opera- 
tion. 

First  bewildering  his  foes  as  to  his  exact  position 
and  projects,  he  safely  crossed  the  Potomac  with  his 
whole  army  into  that  land  of  much  promise,  the  State 
of  Maryland. 

Here  his  first  setback  awaited  him. 

Maryland  had  been  noisy  and  voluble  in  loyalty  to 
the  South.  But,  now  that  the  moment  had  come  to 
prove  that  loyalty,  the  State  failed  to  ^'  rise  as  one 
man  "  to  Lee's  support. 

In  fact,  it  failed  ignominiously  to  rise  at  all. 

Maryland,  as  a  whole,  received  Lee  coolly.  There 
was  no  demonstration  in  his  favor.     The  erstwhile  ar- 


THE  IRON  CHESS-GAME  229 

dent  Marylanders  did  not  care  to  go  on  record  as  favor- 
ing Lee.  For  should  his  invasion  fail  they  were  likely 
thus  to  find  themselves  in  the  unenviable  position  of 
the  small  boy  who  has  prematurely  gone  to  the  help 
of  the  school  bully's  victim. 

There  had  been  plenty  of  sympathy  for  Lee.  There 
was  no  aid  there  for  him. 

And  Bret  Harte's  parody  on  "  Maryland,  My  Mary- 
land," was  sung  derisively  throughout  the  North;  a 
parody  beginning : 

In  battle  thou  art  strangely  meek, 

Maryland,   my   Maryland! 
Thy  politics  are  changed  each  week, 

Maryland,   my   Maryland! 

The  Army  of  the  Potomac  dashed  to  the  defense 
of  the  invaded  State. 

As  Lee  marched  out  of  Frederick,  McClellan  marched 
into  the  town.  The  hour  for  the  decisive  clash  drew 
near ;  the  clash  that  should  once  and  for  all  decide  the 
invasion's  fate. 

In  Washington  —  where  the  fear  of  the  Union  cap- 
ital's falling  into  Lee's  hands  was  monstrously  acute 
—  Abraham  Lincoln's  rugged  face  grew  paler  and 
more  haggard. 

To  his  advisers  he  announced  that  he  had  taken  a 
solemn  vow.  A  vow  that,  should  the  invasion  be  re- 
pelled, he  would  at  once  issue  a  proclamation  freeing 
the  slaves. 

Word  of  this  pledge   reached  Lee  through  under- 


280  "DAD" 

ground  channels.  And  the  Southern  leader  knew  the 
promise  would  be  kept ;  moreover,  that,  on  the  heels 
of  such  a  repulse,  the  Emancipation  Proclamation 
would  prove  well-nigh  a  death-blow  to  all  hope  of  the 
South's  ultimate  success. 

The  die  was  cast.     The  death  duel  was  at  hand. 


Thus  stood  the  situation  on  the  September  day  that 
Dad  and  Battle  Jimmie,  on  borrowed  horses,  cantered 
forth  from  camp  and  on  to  the  Frederick  road. 

Behind  them  the  far-spread  Union  camps  buzzed  and 
hummed  and  fermented.  Excitement  was  in  every 
breath  of  air;  excitement  and  the  suspense  of  stark 
expectancy. 

Days  would  probably  pass  before  the  bulk  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  would  be  set  in  motion.  But 
every  man  knew  just  what  was  coming. 

Every  man  knew  that  the  next  move  would  bring 
the  rival  forces  to  grips,  and  under  more  pregnant  cir- 
cumstances than  ever  before. 

Wherefore  the  vast  camp  stirred  and  muttered  like 
waking  monsters  underseas  at  the  surface  turmoil  of 
mounting  wave  and  wind-blown  foam-crest  that  pre- 
sages storm. 

Ahead  for  some  distance  the  road  was  half-choked 
with  provision  trains,  ammunition  wagons,  and  bag- 
gage carts,  through  which  Dad  and  the  boy  threaded 
their  way  with  no  great  degree  of  ease. 

The  fields  on  either  hand  were  dotted  with  couriers 


THE  IRON  CHESS-GAME  231 

and  returning  skirmish-parties  taking  short  cuts  back 
from  Frederick,  the  town  whence  Lee's  rear  guard,  under 
General  D.  H.  Hill,  had  departed  scarce  fifteen  hours 
earlier,  which  had  been  formerly  occupied  by  the 
Union  vanguard  a  short  time  afterward  —  three  hours, 
in  fact. 

As  the  man  and  the  boy  jogged  along  the  press  in 
the  road  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  in  time  re- 
solved itself  into  a  semi-occasional  stray  rider  or  be- 
lated wagon  or  two. 

Dad  rode  with  the  careless  ease  of  a  lifelong  eques- 
trian to  whom  the  saddle  was  as  familiar  as  a  rocking- 
chair;  and  his  sorrel  mount's  occasional  passaging  and 
curvets  gave  the  rider  not  the  remotest  trouble,  nor 
so  much  as  a  conscious  thought. 

With  Battle  Jimmie  it  was  different.  Until  the  last 
few  months  he  had  never  been  astride  a  horse.  And 
hitherto  most  of  his  rides  had  been  on  the  broad  back 
of  some  caisson  or  baggage  horse  whose  lumbering  gal- 
lop was  highly  uncomfortable,  but  to  whose  moorings 
—  or  harness  —  it  was  possible  to  cling  with  an  un- 
sportsmanlike grip  that  was  highly  needful,  in  the  light 
of  his  inexperience. 

Of  late,  though.  Dad  had  taken  his  grandson's  eques- 
trian education  in  hand,  with  the  result  that  Jimmie 
now  restrained  the  keen  yearning  to  seize  the  pommel 
of  his  army  saddle  or  the  equally  tempting  mane  of  his 
mount  in  the  effort  to  stick  on.  He  rode  in  shortened 
stirrups,  sat  his  saddle  stiffly,  held  the  reins  as  nearly 


"  DAD  " 

as  possible  after  the  correct  and  approved  army  fash- 
ion —  and  during  the  entire  operation  was  as  physi- 
cally miserable  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be. 

His  horse  to-day,  a  huge,  raw-boned  bald-face,  would 
have  proven  a  handful  for  a  more  expert  rider.  Jim- 
mie  sawed  viciously  at  the  brute's  hard  mouth  more 
than  once;  and  the  horse  retaliated  by  jerking  back 
his  head  and  then  suddenly  leaning  on  the  bit  with  a 
tug  that  all  but  pulled  the  reins  free  from  the  rider's 
grubby  little  hands. 

Dad  viewed  the  boy's  efforts  with  covert,  amusement ; 
now  and  then,  as  in  the  case  of  the  jerked  reins,  offer- 
ing a  word  or  two  of  criticism,  then  of  brief,  if  kindly 
spoken,  advice. 

*'  I  can  stay  aboard,"  panted  Jimmie  brokenly,  as 
the  horse  broke  into  a  hard  trot  that  shook  the  breath 
from  his  lungs.  "  I  can  stay  aboard,  all  right.  But 
I  could  get  more  fun  out  of  a  nice  gun-carriage  without 
strings  or  a  —  Gee,  Emp ! "  he  interrupted  himself, 
apostrophizing  the  many-breeded  dog  that  frisked  co- 
quettishly  along  just  ahead  of  him.  "  You  ain't  got 
a  ghost  of  an  idea  how  lucky  you  are  to  have  four  feet 
instead  of  riding  something  that  has.  And  when  you 
sit  down  you've  always  got  something  to  sit  on  that 
won't  jog  you  up  in  the  air  again.  Say,  Dad,  what 
old  duffer  ever  invented  the  fool  idea  that  folks 
mustn't  hang  on  by  the  pommel  and  the  mane.'^  " 

"  The  same  man,  I  suppose,"  responded  Dad,  "  who 
invented  all  the  rules  that  pester  us.     The  rule  that 


THE  IRON  CHESS-GAME  233 

you  mustn't  run  away  when  you're  scared,  and  that 
you  must  tell  the  truth  when  a  lie  would  seem  to  help, 
and  that  you  must  share  the  half  rations  you're  so  hun- 
gry for  with  the  chap  who  hasn't  any ;  and  every  other 
rule  that's  hard  to  obey  and  that  makes  man  something 
better  than  an  animal. 

"  Stick  on,  son.  It'll  come  easier  by  and  by. 
Everything  does.  And  the  outside  of  a  horse  is  the 
best  thing  for  the  inside  of  a  man.  There's  nothing 
else  on  earth  to  equal  riding.  It's  —  Keep  the  hand 
lower  and  the  heels  higher,  son!  Ball  of  the  foot,  not 
the  instep,  in  the  stirrup.     So  !  " 

"  It's  funny,"  mused  Jimmie,  "  how  we  happened  to 
take  this  Frederick  road  when  there  are  so  many 
others.  If  we  aren't  careful  we're  liable  to  run  into 
the  Third  Ambulance  Corps  wagon  train  before  long. 
Emp ! "  he  went  on,  hastily,  forestalling  any  possible 
retort,  "  you  and  I  are  a  lonely  pair  of  youngsters, 
aren't  we?  I  wonder  if  you  ever  had  a  grandmother. 
Maybe  dogs  don't.     I  don't  remember  mine. 

"  But  sometimes  it  kind  of  almost  seems  to  me  as  if 
maybe  I  can  look  forward  to  her,  Emp.  And  it  makes 
me  feel  pretty  good.  'Cause  I  think  she's  just  the 
dandiest  little  lady  that  ever  fell  in  love  with  the  dandi- 
est man  that  ever  was,  or  ever  will  be,  Emp." 

"  Jimmie !  "  remarked  Dad,  sternly.  "  Your  shoul- 
ders are  hunched  over  like  a  black  bear  cub's.  Square 
them  when  you  ride.  Don't  look  more  like  a  meal-sack 
or  a  Cherokee  squaw  than  you  can  help." 


"  DAD  " 

The  boy  straightened  himself  to  erect  military  car- 
riage. And  at  once  the  jarring  trot  of  the  big  horse 
shook  his  spine  excruciatingly. 

He  slowed  his  mount  to  a  walk,  thereat,  with  promp- 
titude. 

"Want  to  turn  back,  son.^  "  queried  Dad.  "Had 
enough  of  it  ?  " 

There  was  a  wistfulness  in  the  kind  query  that  went 
to  the  boy's  jouncing  heart  and  made  him  resolve  to 
be  shaken  to  a  pulp  sooner  than  deprive  Dad  of  a 
chance  to  see  the  one  woman  in  the  ambulance  corps. 

"  Nope !  "  he  lied  blithely.  "  I'm  getting  to  en j  oy 
it  fine." 

Their  horses  plodded  along  at  a  comfortable  walk, 
neck  and  neck,  and  the  boy  breathed  more  easily  and 
shifted  his  position  in  the  torturing  saddle.  Emp  took 
advantage  of  the  slackened  pace  to  dart  to  the  road- 
side and  begin  to  explore  truculently  a  quite-deserted 
woodchuck  hole. 

"  Sic  'im,  Emp !  "  encouraged  Jimmie.  "  Dig  'im 
out,  boy !     Wrassle  'im !  " 

Thus  exhorted,  Emp  bent  his  entire  canine  energy 
to  the  task  of  unearthing  a  woodchuck  from  the  hole 
where  no  woodchuck  was.  The  dog's  yellow  forepaws 
flew  like  pistons,  widening  the  mouth  of  the  hole;  and 
his  red  little  tongue  was  speedily  flaked  with  earth. 

Backward  from  the  swift-plied  paws,  as  he  dug,  flew 
a  cloud  of  yellow  dust. 

And  a  generous  share  of  that  same  yellow  dust  was 
hurled  against  the  spotless  gaiters  and  new  baggy  trou- 


THE  IRON  CHESS-GAME  235 

sers  of  a  corporal  of  Zouaves  who  chanced  to  be  passing 
by,  on  foot,  at  that  side  of  the  road. 

The  corporal,  with  a  single  glance  at  the  cause  of 
this  defacing  of  his  dandified  raiment,  swore  fluently 
and  launched  a  kick  at  the  highly  industrious  Emp. 
Jimmie  cried  out  in  indignant  protest.  The  kick,  con- 
scientiously, but  too  hastily,  delivered,  barely  grazed 
the  flank  of  the  burrowing  dog. 

Emp,  at  the  alien  touch,  ceased  his  excavations  and 
whirled  about  to  investigate.  He  was  just  in  time  to 
witness  the  start  of  the  second  and  even  more  vicious 
kick. 

With  admirable  strategy,  Emp  leaped  to  one  side 
as  the  gaitered  calf  swung  past  him  and,  in  practically 
the  same  motion,  sunk  his  white  little  teeth  in  the 
Zouave's  other  gaiter. 

The  whole  series  of  maneuvers  had  occupied  scarcely 
a  second,  hardly  enough  time  for  the  two  riders  to 
bring  their  mounts  to  a  halt.  The  Zouave,  with  a  yell, 
whipped  out  the  bayonet  from  his  belt  and  made  a  right- 
murderous  lunge  at  the  puppy  which  clung  to  his  leg. 

The  fierce  thrust  that  should  have  impaled  the  little 
dog  did  not  find  its  intended  lodgment.  Instead,  the 
bayonet  hopped  free  of  the  Zouave's  grasp  as  though 
endowed  with  life,  and  tumbled  into  the  ditch  at  the  far 
side  of  the  road. 

The  man  nursing  his  numbed  right  hand,  glowered 
upward;  to  find  towering  above  him  a  giant  horseman, 
bared  sword  flashing  in  ready  and  righteous  menace. 

"  It  says  on  this  blade,"  drawled  Dad,  in  an  almost 


2S6  "  DAD '' 

confidential  tone,  to  the  wrath-dumb  Zouave  — "  it  says 
*  Draw  me  not  without  camsej"  But  I  guess  the  man 
who  made  up  that  motto  wouldn't  have  thought  the  less 
of  me  for  drawing  sword  to  save  a  poor,  fluiFy  puppy- 
dog  from  getting  spitted  like  a  turkey.  There's  worse 
uses  for  a  white  man's  sword  than  to  save  the  life  of 
one  of  God's  little  wards." 

"  The  brute  bit  me !  "  growled  the  Zouave. 

"  Only  when  a  grosser  brute  kicked  him,"  corrected 
Dad.  "  I'm  no  pet-animal  coddler,  my  friend,  and 
sometimes  a  dog  needs  punishment  —  almost  as  much 
as  a  human  does.  But  always  from  his  own  master, 
and  never  by  a  kick.  Just  bear  that  in  mind,  and 
you  won't  force  a  superior  officer  to  work  a  swords- 
manship disarming  trick  on  you  again." 

The  man,  shifting  his  ground  so  that  the  sun  no 
longer  dazzled  him,  saw  for  the  first  time  that  his  quiet- 
voiced  conqueror  wore  the  insignia  of  a  major. 

He  swallowed  back  a  hot  mouthful  of  oaths,  sulkily 
raised  his  hand  in  salute,  then  slouched  across  the  road 
in  search  of  his  flown  bayonet. 

"  You  see,  Jimmie,"  began  Dad,  turning,  "  there's 
no  harm  done,  and — " 

He  broke  off^  with  an  exclamation  of  amaze.  Jimmie 
was  nowhere  in  sight.  Neither  up  nor  down  the  road, 
far  as  eye  could  travel. 

The  boy  and  his  horse  seemed  to  have  been  caught 
up  to  the  skies  or  to  have  sunk  into  the  solid  earth! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A    STEEN    CHASE 

FOR  a  brief  instant  Dad  sat  blinking,  incredulous. 
Then  he  saw  and  understood. 

Crossing  the  field  to  right  of  the  road  and  at  an 
acute  angle  to  it,  a  full  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  thun- 
dered a  runaway  horse.  And  on  the  horse^s  back, 
clutching  frantically  to  the  saddle,  his  new-learned 
principles  of  riding  quite  forgotten,  swayed  and  clung 
Battle  Jimmie. 

At  flash  of  steel  against  steel  the  boy's  half-trained 
cavalry  horse  had  shied  violently.  The  flying  bay- 
onet's point  in  passing  had  pricked  his  shoulder  top, 
narrowly  missing  Jimmie. 

With  a  wild  bound  of  fear  and  pain  the  horse  had 
cleared  the  roadside  ditch  and  had  struck  off^  at  a 
bounding  gallop  across  the  field. 

Jimmie,  almost  unseated  by  that  first  leap,  grabbed 
the  pommel  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he 
sawed  at  the  reins. 

He  might  as  readily  have  pulled  against  an  artillery 
tug-of-war  team.  The  horse  merely  lunged  his  long 
neck  forward  a  little,  caught  the  bit  between  his  teeth, 
and  sped  on,  frantic  with  fear. 

With  high-pitched  voice,  and  futile,  brave  little  hand 

237 


238  "  DAD '' 

the  boy  sought  in  vain  to  check  or  guide  the  mad, 
pounding  flight.  The  horse,  which  the  regimental  far- 
rier had  that  morning  vouched  for  to  Dad  as  "  a  little 
rough  yet,  but  as  gentle  as  a  kitten,"  was  an  old  and 
incurable  off^ender  in  the  vice  of  running  away. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  for  this  grievous  fault 
that  his  civilian  master  had  recently  sold  him  cheap  to 
a  cavalry  contractor. 

Dad  after  a  first  glance  saw  that  the  boy  was  not 
frightened  and  that  he  was  likely  to  keep  his  seat  far 
more  easily  at  a  sweeping  run  than  at  a  bone-shaking 
trot.  Unless  the  horse  should  buck,  shy,  or  catch  his 
foot  in  some  hole  in  the  field,  the  rider  was  safe 
enough. 

On  the  bare  chance  of  one  of  the  casualties  Dad  put 
his  own  horse  at  the  ditch  and  galloped  down  the  field 
in  pursuit.  But  it  was  more  in  amusement  than  in  fear 
that  he  gave  chase. 

Well-mounted  though  he  was,  he  was  too  far  behind, 
and  the  runaway  was  going  at  too  furious  a  pace  for 
Dad  to  hope  to  overhaul  Jimmie  for  some  time.  So 
he  merely  settled  down  to  an  enlivening  gallop,  with 
the  hope  that  the  boy's  horse  would  soon  run  himself 
out. 

For  two  miles  or  more  they  continued  this;  Dad 
gaining  little  if  at  all.  The  runaway's  panic  fear  and 
the  light  weight  of  his  rider  helped  him  maintain  his 
great  pace. 

Dad  began  to  worry.  They  were  almost  abreast  of 
Frederick  by  this  time,  and  a  full  half-mile  to  south  of 


A  STERN  CHASE  239 

the  town.  Beyond,  somewhere  in  that  tumble  of  light 
green  valleys  and  dark  green  hills  was  the  rear  guard 
of  the  Confederate  army. 

Perhaps  only  a  few  miles  away  might  lurk  a  belated 
troop  of  camp-followers  or  even  a  company  of  bush- 
whackers. 

To  the  Confederate  army,  where  boys  of  fifteen  were 
daily  enlisting  as  regular  soldiers,  a  lad  of  Jimmie's 
age  in  a  Federal  uniform  would  readily  pass  as  an  en- 
listed man  and,  as  such,  if  captured,  would  be  liable 
to  confinement  in  one  of  the  Southern  war-prisons  —  a 
possible  fate  which  turned  Dad  sick  with  dread  for  his 
adored  grandson. 

He  loosed  his  rein  and  for  the  first  time  touched 
spur  to  his  sorrel. 

The  mettled  horse,  unbreathed  by  the  gallop,  re- 
sponded with  the  readiness  of  a  machine.  The  gallop 
changed  to  a  run.  The  stubble  field  over  which  they 
were  passing  became  a  yellowish  blur  under  the  flying 
feet. 

Little  by  little,  steadily,  but  ever  so  slowly,  the  gap 
between  the  blooded  sorrel  and  the  coarser-grained 
runaway  began  to  close.  By  the  end  of  another  mile 
there  was  a  scant  hundred  yards  between  them. 

Frederick  was  well  behind  them  now.  The  last 
Union  outposts,  a  half-mile  beyond  the  town  and  as 
far  to  the  north  of  the  two  riders,  were  past. 

Into  "  no-man's  land,"  into  that  most  perilous  of 
regions,  the  "  debatable  ground  "  between  two  hostile 
armies,  sped  pursuer  and  pursued. 


«40  "  DAD  " 

Hearing  the  ever-nearing  drumming  of  hoofs  behind 
him,  the  runaway  increased  his  flagging  speed. 

Jimmie  heard,  too,  and,  glancing  bafck  over  his  shoul- 
der, grinned  delightedly  at  the  white-faced  man  who 
rode  so  furiously  in  pursuit  of  him. 

To  the  boy  it  was  a  glorious  lark.  The  long,  smooth 
gait  of  the  runaway  did  not  toss  him  about  in  the  sad- 
dle as  had  the  rough  trot  and  gallop.  Jimmie,  helpless 
as  he  was  to  curb  his  mount's  pace,  was  thoroughly 
enjoying  the  novelty  of  this  exploit. 

Dad's  spurs  were  blood-flecked.  Dad's  gallant  horse 
was  beginning  to  breathe  in  gasps.  The  September 
wind  hammered  and  whipped  the  man's  hot  face  and 
blurred  his  eyes.  The  octuple  thud  of  hoofs  was 
nauseating  him. 

Another  mile  and  the  runaway  breasted  a  steep 
hillock.     Dad  was  a  bare  ten  yards  behind. 

"  Now,  then,  Jimmie !  "  he  sung  out.  "  Now's  your 
chance  as  he  takes  that  rise.  Both  hands  on  the  reins. 
Forget  the  pommel.  Both  hands  on  the  reins,  I  said. 
Lean  back  with  all  your  weight.  Hold  the  right  rein 
stifi^,  and  saw  on  the  left.     With  your  whole  weight, 


son! 


I » 


The  lad  obeyed,  though  with  visible  reluctance,  for 
he  was  having  a  beautiful  time  and  saw  no  good  reason 
for  ending  it  so  soon. 

The  maneuver  with  the  reins  jerked  back  the  bit 
from  between  the  runaway's  teeth.  It  incidentally 
caused  him  to  break  momentarily  his  long  stride. 


A  STERN  CHASE  241 

The  steepness  of  the  hillock  did  the  rest. 

At  the  summit  Dad  was  alongside.  He  reached  far 
the  boy's  bridle. 

As  his  fingers  were  almost  closing  on  the  rein,  a  va- 
grant gust  of  wind  snatched  up  from  under  a  bush 
(whither  another  gust  had  evidently  whisked  it)  a  piece 
of  white  paper. 

The  paper  swirled  upward  in  the  very  track  of  the 
runaway  like  a  sentient  thing,  and  danced  in  air  before 
his  bloodshot  eyes. 

The  fear-crazed  brute  forgot  his  exhaustion  long 
enough  to  swerve  violently  to  the  right.  Dad's  clutch- 
ing hand  closed  upon  nothingness. 

Jimmie  remained  stationary  in  mid  air  —  the  horse 
having  shied  from  under  him  —  for  the  most  infinitesi- 
mal fraction  of  a  second. 

Then  he  descended  to,  earth  with  considerable  force ; 
landed',  still  in  a  sitting  posture,  with  an  impact  that 
knocked  the  breath  completely  out  of  him;  and  stared 
dazedly  upward  at  his  grandfather. 

Dad,  slipping  from  his  horse,  picked  the  boy  up  and 
stood  him  on  his  feet. 

"Are  you  hurt,  dear  lad?"  he  cried.  "Are  you 
badly  hurt.?'' 

"  No,"  responded  Jimmie,  albeit  uncertainly.  "  But 
—  but  it's  blamed  lucky  for  me  I  got  so  many  spank- 
ings from  father  when  I  was  home.  They've  —  they've 
kind  of  calloused  me,  I  gues?.  Gee,  Dad,  but  that  was 
one  gorgeous  ride;  and  I  stuck  on,  all  right,  didn't  I, 


242  "  DAD  " 

Dad?  As  long  as  we  kept  going.  What's  the  matter, 
sir?  You're  all  gray-white  and  you  look  'most  a  hun- 
dred." 1 

Dad  did  not  answer.  He  turned  from  the  boy, 
brushing  the  back  of  a  shaking  hand  over  his  eyes.  He 
fell  to  examining  his  panting  horse. 

The  sorrel  stood  with  drooped  head  and  red  eyes  and 
nostrils.  There  were  blood-flecks  on  his  sweat-drenched 
sides.     He  was  heaving  and  wind-broken. 

"  Foundered !  "  pronounced  Dad,  sorrowfully.  '^  I 
don't  wonder.  The  going  was  harder  than  any  fox- 
hunt. Now,  how  in  blue  and  pink  blazes  are  we  going 
to  get  back?  It's  a  good  two  miles  and  more  to  our 
outposts." 

He  glanced  about.  Twenty  yards  distant  the  run-* 
away,  reeking  with  sweat  and  breathing  in  snorts,  had 
come  to  a  standstill,  his  senseless  nightmare  fear  lost 
in  exhaustion,  and  was  cropping  grass. 

A  hand  slipped  into  Dad's. 

"Honest,  sir,  I  didn't  do  it  on  purpose,"  Jimmie 
was  saying.  "  I'm  sorry  the  horses  are  so  done  up. 
And  —  and  I'm  a  lot  sorrier  we  missed  getting  to  where 
the  Third  Ambulance  Corps  is.  Maybe  it  isn't  too 
late,  yet.  We  could  walk  the  horses  back,  you  know. 
It's  only  a  few  miles.  Hallo !  Here  comes  Emp !  All 
tuckered  out.     But  as  game  as  tunket,  the  good  little 


cuss  I 


f  '> 


Sure  eilough,  up  the  slope  toiled  the  yellow  puppy, 
his  tongue  hanging  out  to  an  unbelievable  length,  his 
multishaded  fur  coated  with  dust. 


A  STERN  CHASE  243 

He  had  kept  up  as  well  as  he  could.  But  he  was  no 
fox-hound  —  at  least,  not  more  than  perhaps  one  or 
two  per  cent. —  and  the  pace  had  proven  far  too  hot 
for  him  to  be  in  at  the  death. 

Still  he  had  done  his  level  four-legged  best.  And 
here  at  last  he  was,  a  trifle  belated  and  very  leg-weary, 
but  triumphant  at  having  finally  overtaken  his  little 
master. 

Emp  gamboled  weariedly  yet  joyfully  about  the 
boy;  then,  to  show  his  spirit  was  less  impaired  than 
his  body,  he  dashed  awkwardly  to  one  side  and  seized 
in  his  teeth  the  crumpled  piece  of  paper  that  had  caused 
Jimmie's  tumble. 

The  paper,  its  mission  accomplished,  had  lodged  at 
the  base  of  a  rock.  Thence  Emp^  dragged  it  and,  pro- 
fessing to  recognize  in  it  a  deadly  yet  very  conquerable 
foe,  shook  it  fiercely,  accompanying  his  shakes  with 
short,  breathless  growls  of  extreme  fury. 

"  Here,  you ! "  exhorted  Jimmie,  pouncing  on  Emp 
and  forcibly  taking  the  wad  of  paper  from  the  dog's 
reluctant  paws,  seeking  to  mask  his  own  fall-shaken 
nerves  under  ar  display  of  juvenile  bombasity.  "  Here, 
you;  Emperor  Napoleon  Pete  Bub  Bonaparte  Brinton 
Dog,  Esq.,  you  drop  that!  It's  a  war-relic,  and 
I'm  a  goin'  to  keep  it  and  show  it  to  my  grand-chil- 
dren. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  say  to  'em :  *  You  little  numskulls, 
just  you  gaze  on  this  yellowed  sheet  of  parchment. 
Your  grandfather  had  been  a-ridin'  horseback,  man 
and  boy,  for  pretty  near  six  months,  when  this  priceless 


£44  "DAD'^ 

relic  gave  him  his  first  fall.'  I'm  going  to  inscribe  on 
it  —  on  it  — 

"Why,  hello!  There  is  something^ written  on  it  al- 
ready. I'll  have  to  rub  it  out  and  write  my  inscrip- 
tion over  it." 

He  had  partly  unfolded  the  paper  as  he  meandered  on. 

Now  he  read  aloud,  slowly,  and  with  difficulty  de- 
ciphering the  half-chewed  screed: 

"  Special  Order  No.  191.  Headquarters  of  the  Army 
of  Northern  Virginia,  September  9,  1862. 

"  The  army  will  resume  its  march  to-morrow,  taking  the 
Hagerstown  road.  General  Jackson's  command  will  form 
the  advance  and,  after  passing  Middletown,  with  such  por- 
tion as  he  may  select  — " 

"  Aw,  shucks ! "  yawned  the  boy.  "  Just  a  lot  of 
military  bosh.  I  kind  of  had  a  hope  it  might  turn  out 
to  be  something  interesting." 

Dad,  who  had  been  loosening  the  girth  of  his  foun- 
dered horse,  turned  sharply. 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  his  grandson's  love  for 
enacting  all  sorts  of  roles  and  declaiming  laughably 
impossible  orations,  he  had  listened  with  real  pride  to 
this  latest  eff'usion.  Deeming  that  the  boy  was  impro- 
vising, he  had  wondered  at  the  concise  and  professional 
wording  of  the  supposedly  imaginary  dispatch. 

But  at  Jimmie's  exclamation  of  disgust  over  the  un- 
interesting nature  of  the  document,  he  began  to  won- 
der if,  after  all,  something  of  interest,  even  of  im- 
portance, might  not  be  sprawled  on  that  much  mis- 
handled sheet  of  paper. 


A  STERN  CHASE  245 

It  was  over  this  ground  that  part  of  the  Confed- 
erate army  had  passed  but  a  few  hours  earlier.  Per- 
haps — 

He  took  the  paper  from  the  boy,  spread  out  its 
crumbled  surface  once  more,  verified  at  a  glance  what 
Jimmie  had  read  aloud,  then  went  on  with  the  reading : 

— "  take  the  route  toward  Sharpsburg,  cross  the  Potomac 
at  the  most  convenient  point,  and  by  Friday  night  take 
possession  of  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio  Railroad  and  cap- 
ture such  of  the  enemy  as  may  be  at  Martinsburg  and  in- 
tercept such  as  may  attempt  to  escape  from  Harper/s 
Ferry. 

**  General  Longstreet's  command  will  — ** 

Dad's  staring  eyes  shifted  at  this  point  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  page;  past  much  more  closely  written  mat- 
ter, in  search  of  the  signature. 

He  found  it. 

"(By  command  of  General  Robert  E.  Lee.)  R.  H. 
Chilton,   Assistant   Adjutant-General." 

On  the  line  below  was  written: 

*'  To  Ma j  or-General  D.  H.  Hill,  Commanding  Division." 

Unbelieving,  dumfounded,  Dad  went  back  to  the 
point  where  he  had  left  off  and  read  to  the  end. 

To-day  all  the  world  knows  the  contents  of  "  Special 
Order  No.  191  " —  that  order,  a  copy  of  which  was 
sent  by  Lee  to  every  division  commander.  The  docu- 
ment telling  of  Lee's  plan  to  detach  a  part  of  his  main 


246  "  DAD  " 

army  and,  under  Stonewall  Jackson,  to  send  it  to  cap- 
ture the  unprepared  garrison  and  arsenal  at  Harper's 
Ferry,  while  Lee  himself  should  strive  to  hide  from  Mc- 
Clellan  the  fact  that  the  Confederate  host  was  sadly 
depleted  by  the  sending  of  this  detachment;  and  thus 
to  prevent  the  Union  armies  from  attacking  him  until 
Jackson's  force  should  return. 

Like  most  of  Lee's  plans  it  was  brilliant  and  sim- 
ple.    It  had  every  prospect  of  success. 

And  its  success  would  probably  have  meant  the 
wrecking  of  the  Union  cause  through  the  invasion's 
achievement. 

Yet  General  D.  H.  Hill  somehow  let  drop  from  a 
pocket  his  copy  of  the  order,  and  that  copy  really  was 
picked  up  through  sheer  chance. 

Dad  read  to  the  end;  then  hurriedly  reread. 

Then  he  turned  to  Jimmie ;  his  firm  mouth  twitching 
grotesquely. 

"  This  —  this  has  got  to  get  to  General  McClellan 
= —  now  —  now!  "  he  babbled.  "  It  means  —  Lord  of 
Battles!  —  it  means  everything  to  us!  Everything! 
It  must  go  to  him  as  fast  as  a  horse  can  be  flogged 
into  running.  And  —  my  horse  is  dead  beat;  and  so, 
I  guess,  is  yours!     Oh,  whafs  to  be  done?" 

He  strode  nervously  across  to  where  the  runaway 
still  cropped  grass,  half-way  down  the  slope  of  the  far- 
ther hillock. 

And  as  he  came  within  arm's  length  of  the  animal  a 


A  STERN  CHASE  247 

rather  pleasant  voice  called  to  him  from  a  thicket  to 
the  left: 

"  Hands  up,  Yank !     Hands  up,  both  of  you.     Up. 
'Way  up!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CHECK    AND    COUNTER-CHECK 

DAD  wheeled.  At  the  hillock's  foot,  just  in  front 
of  him,  a  bare  ten  feet  away,  stood  a  man  in  the 
frayed  and  stained  gray  uniform  of  a  captain  of  Con- 
federate cavalry, 

A  path,  running  down  the  hill,  wound  through  thick 
undergrowth  beyond.  And  along  this  thicket-grown 
path,  from  somewhere  in  the  rear  of  the  Confederate 
army,  the  captain  had  evidently  ridden. 

At  sight  of  the  two  Northerners  he  must  have  dis- 
mounted ;  for  his  horse  stood  directly  behind  him  within 
the  high  screen  of  bushes. 

So  silently  had  the  man  approached,  and  so  engrossed 
had  Dad  been  in  the  mighty  fate  that  hung  on  his  own 
strangely  acquired  tidings,  that  no  warning  of  the 
enemy's  approach  had  come  to  put  him  on  his  guard. 

And  now  the  boy  on  the  hillock  crest  and  his  grand- 
father near  the  hillock  foot  found  themselves  looking 
into  the  steadily  leveled  mouth  of  f.n  army  revolver. 

The  Confederate  eyed  them  with  a  slight  smile  of 
almost  deprecatory  politeness. 

"  Hands  up,  I  said,''  he  repeated. 

"  Hands  up,  Jimmie ! "  called  Dad  cheerfully,  over 

^8 


CHECK  AND  COUNTER-CHECK         249 

his  shoulder.  "  He's  got  the  drop  on  us.  And  a 
loaded  pistol  is  apt  to  be  a  nasty  thing  to  argue  with. 
It's  got  a  snappish  way  of  insisting  on  having  the  last 
word." 

He  set  his  grandson  the  example  by  raising  his  own 
hands  well  above  his  head.  Striding  forward  toward 
his  captor,  he  smiled  back  into  the  Confederate's  smil- 
ing face  and  said: 

"  What  next,  sir?  We  seem  to  be  at  your  orders. 
Or,  rather,  at  your  pistol's.  What  do  you  want  of 
us?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  captain  politely,  his  soft,  slurring 
accent  unruffled  by  the  faintest  trace  of  excitement, 
"  I'm  mighty  sorry  to  discommode  you,  suh.  But  I'm 
afraid  I'll  have  to  get  you-all  to  walk  ahead  of  me  a 
half-mile  or  so  along  that  path  to  where  my  company 
is  resting  for  dinner. 

"  After  that  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  Libby  for  you,  suh, 
and  Belle  Isle  prison  for  your  little  orderly  up  yonder. 
OfF'cers  to  the  right;  privates  to  the  left.  May  I 
trouble  you  to  stand  still  in  that  uncomfortable  atti- 
tude just  a  minute  longer,  suh?  " 

Shifting  his  pistol  muzzle  ever  so  little,  and  embrac- 
ing both  Dad  and  Jimmie  in  the  same  glance  of  his 
sleepy  eyes,  the  Confederate  raised  his  voice: 

"You  orderly  up  there!"  he  called.  "Walk  back 
to  that  sorrel  horse!  Straight  back!  He's  in  line 
with  you !  Keep  your  hands  up !  Go  back  there  and 
unfasten  the  bearing-rein  from  the  bit.  Then,  with 
your  hands  still  up,  come  down  this  slope  in  the  same 


260  "  DAD  " 

line  and  tie  this  gentleman's  wrists  together  with  the 
rein.  j 

"  You  see,  suh,"  he  explained  courteously  to  Dad, 
"  the  way  is  pretty  crooked.  And  there's  bushes  both 
sides  of  the  road.  I  can't  quite  make  certain  of  you 
both,  walking  ahead  of  me,  unless  at  least  one  of  you 
is  tied.     Hurry  up  there,  orderly !     Get  me  that  rein." 

"  I'll  see  you  and  Jeff  Davis  and  Bob  Lee  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  South  in  Kingdom  Come,  first ! "  shrilled 
Jimmie.  ^'  I  put  up  my  hands  because  Dad  told  me 
to.  Not  because  I'm  afraid  of  that  pop-gun  of  yours. 
But  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  tie  him  up  for  you— ■ 
say,  Reb,  I  could  pretty  near  lick  you  myself.  And 
I'll  try  it,  if  you're  man  enough  to  gimme  half  a  show 
by  pocketin'  that  gun." 

^'  They  breed  'em  game  in  your  part  of  the  world, 
sonny,"  smiled  the  captain.  "  And  now  that  you've 
said  your  little  piece,  just  shut  up  on  the  heroics  and 
do  as  I  tell  you.  A  bullet  hole  in  your  little  stomach 
would  be  a  mighty  unbecoming  sight.     Step  lively ! " 

*'  I  won't ! "  roared  Jimmie.  "  You  soft-voiced 
bully!  I'm  getting  to  hate  every  bone  in  your  body. 
Dad !  Dad !  Say,  can  I  put  my  hands  down,  and  I'll 
take  a  chance  with  his  gun.  I  licked  Roddy  Slade,  and 
Roddy's  pretty  near  as  big  as  that  Reb  is  —  I  can  do 
him,  I  bet  you !  " 

"  Jimmie ! "  called  Dad,  his  voice  steady  with  a  gen- 
tle authority.     "  Do  as  he  says." 

"  Dad!  '* 

"  Exactly  as  he  says,"  ordered  Dad. 


CHECK  AND  COUNTER-CHECK         251 

«0h,  Dad!     Let  me—" 

^'  Jimmie !     Obey  orders." 

There  was  now  no  doubt  as  to  the  authority  in  Dad's 
voice.  Jimmie  groaned  aloud  and  started  at  snail-pace 
toward  the  sorrel. 

''  I'd  a  lot  rather  charge  a  gun  battery,"  he  la- 
mented. "  Say,  Reb,  I'm  doing  this  because  my  grand- 
father tells  me  to.  And  he's  my  s'perior  officer.  Not 
because  you  told  me  to,  or  because  I'm  scared  of  your 
gun.  And  say,  you !  Don't  you  go  getting  the  notion 
Dad's  a-scared  of  you,  either.  He  isn't  scared  of  any- 
thing. I  don't  know  why  he's  surrendering,  but  if  he's 
doing  it,  it's  all  right,  somehow." 

Still  grumbling,  mouthing  horribly  murderous 
threats,  the  boy  began  to  unfasten  the  bearing  rein 
from  bit  and  saddle  bow. 

"  You'll  pardon  my  grandson's  heat,  sir,"  apologized 
Dad  to  his  captor.  *^  He's  only  a  youngster,  and  he 
hasn't  learned  philosophy  yet.     You  see,  we  — 

"  Pardon  me,  captain,"  broke  off  Dad,  with  a  sudden 
wide  grin  as  his  eyes  chanced  to  drop  from  the  Con- 
federate's face  to  the  leveled  revolver  whose  muzzle  was 
now  less  than  a  yard  from  his  own  chest,  "  but  when 
you  try  to  hold  men  up  with  a  pistol,  mightn't  it  be 
just  a  trifle  wiser  to  see  that  your  pistol  is  cocked?  " 

The  Confederate  involuntarily  glanced  down  at  his 
weapon  —  which,  by  the  way,  chanced  to  be  fully 
cocked  —  and  at  the  same  instant  Dad  struck. 

He  struck  palm-wide  with  the  speed  of  a  cat.  His 
open  hand  smote  the  Confederate  across  the  knuckles; 


262  "  DAD  " 

all  the  force  of  trained  sinews  and  scientific  skill  behind 
the  lightning-swift  blow. 

The  pistol  was  knocked  clean  out  of  the  captain's 
hand  and  tumbled  into  the  bushes;  happily  and  irre- 
trievably removed  from  the  situation. 

Dad's  hand  in  a  flash  was  at  his  own  holster. 

But  too  late  he  remembered  that  he  had  left  his  pistol 
in  his  tent  —  having  had  no  idea  that  he  should  be  rid- 
ing that  day  beyond  his  own  army's  lines.  He  knew, 
too,  that  Jimmie  was  unarmed ;  for  he  himself  had  very 
vigorously  vetoed  the  boy's  yearning  to  keep  on  carry- 
ing a  huge  revolver. 

The  ruse,  to  this  point  had  succeeded  with  ridiculous 
ease.  The  Confederate,  deceived  by  his  captive's  meek 
submission,  had  been  wholly  unsuspecting. 

Wherefore  Dad  had  been  able,  without  trouble,  to 
edge  up  within  striking  distance  and  by  use  of  a  time- 
honored  trick  to  distract  and  then  disarm  his  would-be 
captor. 

But  as  he  reached  in  vain  for  his  pistol  the  situation 
shifted  once  more.  For  the  captain,  his  revolver  lost, 
whipped  out  the  light  cavalry  saber  he  carried,  and, 
springing  forward,  swung  the  slender  blade  aloft  for 
a  stroke  that  should  avenge  his  tricking.  His  colossal 
and  courteous  calm  had  momentarily  forsaken  him. 

There  was  no  time  for  Dad  to  snatch  his  own  sword, 
no  chance  for  thinking.  But  the  blind  instinct,  where- 
with a  thousand  primeval  ancestors  have  succeeded  in 
enrolling  themselves  among  the  ^*  fittest,"  came  to 
Dad's  aid. 


CHECK  AND  COUNTER-CHECK         253 

As  the  saber  fell,  he  leaped  back  out  of  reach  —  yet 
barely  far  enough,  for  the  blade  grazed  his  arm  in  whiz- 
zing past;  grazed  it,  glancingly;  shearing  a  gash  in 
coat  and  shirt  sleeve,  and  the  deflected  blade  raising  a 
welt  on  the  flesh  of  the  upper  arm. 

Before  the  weapon  could  be  swung  aloft  for  a  second 
slash,  or  its  wielder's  arm  shortened  for  a  lunge,  Dad 
was  at  the  Confederate's  throat. 

Bare-handed,  unafraid,  he  ran  in;  too  close  to  his 
foe  to  allow  the  use  of  saber  play.  The  instinct  that 
had  prompted  him  to  dodge  and  then  to  attack,  had 
also  warned  him  to  come  to  grips  before  the  saber 
could  be  put  to  use. 

Had  Dad  sought  to  strike  or  to  keep  for  an  instant 
longer  at  long  range,  the  sword  would  have  rendered 
him  helpless.  As  it  was  at  close  quarters  he  rendered 
the  saber  a  handicap  rather  than  an  aid  to  his  en- 
emy. 

Dad's  right  hand  found  the  captain's  throat.  His 
left  shot  aloft  and  seized  the  wrist  that  brandished  the 
saber.  His  lithe  old  body  twisted  forward  and  side- 
ways into  the  "  hiplock." 

The  Confederate,  meantime  tugging  furiously  to  free 
his  own  imprisoned  sword-arm,  struck  with  all  his 
might,  his  left  fist  clenched,  at  Dad's  face. 

Dad  ducked  and  the  blow  landed  full  on  the  tough 
crown  of  his  head. 

Dad  saw  a  choice  assortment  of  stars,  but  he  held 
his  grip,  dogged,  tense,  unyielding  in  spite  of  the  dizzy 
nausea  that  the  head  blow  had  caused  him. 


254  "  DAD  " 

The  Confederate,  on  the  contrary,  cried  out  In  sharp 
pain,  and  Dad,  with  a  grim  thrill  of  joy,  knew  why. 

The  fist,  crashing  with  all  its  forci  on  Dad's  skull, 
had  met  the  same  fate  as  has  many  a  pugilist's  in  land- 
ing a  blow  in  the  same  inauspicious  spot.  Two  of  the 
Confederate's  fingers  were  broken  by  the  jarring  im- 
pact, and  his  wrist  was  badly  sprained. 

Dad,  instinctively  seeking  to  protect  his  own  face, 
had  resorted,  without  intent,  to  a  favorite  street-fight 
maneuver;  by  opposing  his  head-crown  to  a  blow  in- 
stead of  his  jaw.  Hundreds  of  hands  have  been  broken 
or  otherwise  put  out  of  commission  by  thai  simple  ruse. 

The  Confederate's  left  hand  being  helpless,  Dad 
shifted  his  own  right  from  the  man's  throat  to  the  sword 
wrist.  A  heaving  wrench  of  both  hands  and  the  saber 
flew  from  the  captain's  back-twisted  arm. 

Jimmy  (who,  during  the  second  or  two  that  had 
elapsed  since  Dad  and  the  Confederate  had  so  unex- 
pectedly shifted  their  roles  of  captor  and  captive,  had 
stared  fascinated  at  the  fray)  now  jumped  forward 
with  a  whoop  and  snatched  up  the  fallen  saber, 

"Where'll  I  give  it  to  him.  Dad?"  he  yelled  exult- 
antly. "  Not  to  hurt  him  much,  but  to  make  him  let 
up  on  you." 

"  Keep  out  of  this !  "  panted  Dad. 

He  could  not,  now,  use  his  sword  with  honor,  and  it 
would  hamper  him.  Leaping  back  he  unbuckled  belt 
and  all,  flung  them  in  Jimmy's  direction,  and  closed 
again. 

Disregarding  the  broken  hand,  the  Confederate  threw 


CHECK  AND  COUNTER-CHECK         355 

both  arms  about  the  old  man  in  a  right-unloving  em- 
brace, and  the  two  crashed  to  earth. 

Ov€r  and  over  they  rolled;  the  Confederate  pound- 
ing and  struggling  like  mad;  Dad  seeking  merely  to 
gain  the  upper  hand. 

Jimmy  danced  about  them,  saber  threateningly 
poised,  shouting: 

"  Surrender,  you !  Surrender  or  I'll  stick  this 
sword  into  youf" 

He  could  not  have  carried  out  his  threat,  even  had 
he  so  chosen.  For  the  two  men  on  the  ground  were 
so  inextricably  snarled  together  and  were  writhing  and 
pummeling  and  shifting  their  relative  positions  with 
such  suddenness,  that  the  boy  could  not  possibly  attack 
one  of  them  without  an  equal  chance  of  injuring  the 
other. 

Presently  they  were  on  their  feet,  and  Dad  secured 
the  hold  he  had  been  groping  for.  By  use  of  a  simple 
old  wrestling  trick  known  to  athletes  of  those  days  as 
"  bustling  the  bridge,'^  he  whirled  his  foe  fully  a  yard 
in  air  and  brought  him  down  breathless  on  his  back 
with  a  thump  that  half-stunned  the  fallen  man.  As  he 
fell  Dad  heard  the  shoulder  bone  crack. 

Dad  wasted  no  time.  Kneeling  on  the  Confederate's 
forearms,  he  called  to  Jimmy: 

"Son!  That  paper.?  Is  it  where  I  dropped  it? 
The  one  I  was  reading  when  — " 

"  Lemme  help  you  hold  him  down.  Dad ! "  pleaded 
the  boy,  unhearing.     "  Maybe  he'll  — " 

"  Jimmie ! "  roared  Dad,  the  old  voice  vibrant  with 


256  "  DAD  " 

an  authority  the  lad  could  not  disregard.  "  Listen  to 
me!  (No,  I  don't  need  any  help.  Keep  away  from 
his  feet.)  That  bit  of  paper  you  found.  The  one  that 
scared  your  horse.  The  one  I  was  reading.  Where 
is  it?     Find  it!     Quick!'' 

He  bent  to  the  task  of  quieting  the  wriggling  Con- 
federate ;  then  went  on : 

"Find  it!     Is—" 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Jimmy,  sighting  the  fallen  paper 
a  few  feet  away  anjl  going  to  pick  it  up.  "  But,  say, 
let  me  help  — " 

"Have  you  got  it.''"  demanded  Dad,  far  too  busy 
with  his  fallen  antagonist  to  look  around. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Here  it  is.  Oh,  Dad,  smash  him !  Don't 
let  him  wriggle  free.  Why  don't  you  hit  him.?  He 
ain't  really  down!  Make  him  say  he's  had  enough. 
Want  any  help,  sir.'*  Shall  I  pitch  in,  too?  Or  can 
I  sic  Emp  onto  him  ?     I  — " 

"  Quick,  son ! "  broke  in  Dad,  his  voice  shaken  by 
passionate  earnestness,  as  he  bent  every  atom  of 
strength  to  maintain  his  position  above  his  foe.  "  Take 
that  paper,  jump  on  the  horse  in  the  path  yonder,  and 
ride  straight  to  General  McClellan  I  I  pointed  out  his 
headquarters  to  you.  Get  that  paper  to  him.  No  mat- 
ter what  happens  to  stop  you.  Get  it  to  him,  and  tell 
him  how  we  found  it.  Ride,  lad!  Hang  on  by  mane, 
or  saddle,  or  any  way  you  like,  but  ride!  It's  for  our 
country.  It  may  even  save  the  Union.  You  can  serve 
America  to-day  better  than  fifty  generals.     Get  that 


CHECK  AND  COUNTER-CHECK         257 

paper  to  him !  Into  his  own  hands !  Ride  the  horse  to 
death  if  you  havfe  to ! " 

Each  sentence  came  in  a  shouted  gasp.  At  the  first 
words  the  Confederate  had  redoubled  his  struggles  and, 
by  a  mighty  heave,  had  all  but  reversed  their  positions. 
Despite  the  handicap  of  a  broken  hand  and  wrenched 
shoulder  the  Southerner  was  fighting  like  a  wildcat. 

And  knowledge  of  the  injuries  made  Dad  gentle  in 
dealing  with  him.  The  old  man  struck  no  blow ;  merely 
held  to  earth  his  writhing  opponent,  and  shouted  the 
gasping  commands  to  his  grandson. 

In  all  his  fifteen  years,  Battle  Jimmie  had  never  heard 
so  excited,  so  madly  pleading  a  tone  in  his  beloved 
grandfather's  voice. 

In  no  way  understanding  the  cause  for  the  vehe- 
mence, he  felt  none  the  less  the  pressing  need  to  obey. 
If,  in  that  tone.  Dad  had  bidden  him  eat  one  of  the 
horses,  Jimmie  would  at  once  have  started  to  gnaw  the 
nearest  hoof. 

He  ran  down  the  slope,  seized  the  rein  and  pommel 
of  the  captain's  horse,  a  black  Virginia  thoroughbred, 
scrambled  to  the  saddle,  sticking  the  sheet  of  paper  in- 
side the  neck  of  his  shirt,  and  dug  his  heels  into  the 
horse's  side  with  every  ounce  of  his  energy. 

Much  has  been  written  —  chiefly  in  verse  —  of  the 
intelligence  and  loyalty  of  a  thoroughbred  horse.  But 
that  same  loyalty  and  intelligence  does  not  prevent  him 
from  allowing  himself  to  be  ridden  away  by  a  thief  from 
under  the  very  eyes  of  his  master. 


^58  "  DAD  " 

Wherein  even  the  best  horse  appears  to  show  in- 
finitely less  sense  and  affection  than  does  a  mongrel  dog 
or  even  an  alley  cat. 

Under  his  new  and  clumsy  rider^s  jexhortations,  the 
black  thoroughbred  bounded  up  the  slope.  . 

"  I'm  off !  '*  called  Battle  Jimmie,  stopping.  "  But 
—  say !  I  wish  I  could  stay  and  help  you.  Are  you 
dead  sure  you  can  finish  licking  him  without  me,  Dad?  " 

"  Yes ! ''  gasped  Dad.  "  Go  —  everything  depends 
on  it!  You're  carrying  the  fate  of  the  whole  army! 
Ride!    And  —    God  go  with  you,  lad !  " 

"All  right,  sir!  Get  back  there,  Emp!  Go  back! 
Wait  for  Dad !     You  can't  keep  up  with  me  1 " 

Over  the  hillock  crest  swept  the  black  horse,  the  boy 
clinging  to  his  mane  and,  by  kicks  and  shouts,  urging 
him  to  top  speed.  Over  the  hill  summit  and  down  the 
steep  slope  and  on  until  the  thud  of  hoofs  died  to  the 
straining  ears  of  Dad. 

Then  Dad  turned  back  to  the  business  in  hand ;  first 
angrily  shoving  off  Emp,  who,  with  shrill  barks,  had 
been  encircling  the  fighters,  seeking  for  a  good  chance 
to  sink  his  teeth  into  some  part  of  the  Confederate's 
struggling  anatomy. 

But  there  was  little  nwre  to  do.  With  a  final  kick 
and  a  straining  heave  of  the  shoulders,  the  Southerner's 
body  all  at  once  grew  limp. 

"  Fainted  from  the  pain,  poor  cuss ! "  mused  Dad, 
rising.     "  But  maybe  it's  best  to  make  sure." 

He  passed  the  dropped  bearing  rein  about  the  sense- 
less man's  ankles ;  then  fell  to  examining  the  hurt  hand 


CHECK  AND  COUNTER-CHECK         259 

and  shoulder.  As  Dad  worked  over  him,  the  Confed- 
erate opened  his  eyes  and  lay  very  quiet,  staring  up  at 
his  conqueror. 

"  Nothing  dangerous,"  cheerily  reported  Dad. 
"  Broken  fingers  and  —  I  guess  your  collar  bone  needs 
attention." 


CHAPTER  XXIX^ 


THE   END   OF    THE   FIGHT 


DAD  subconsciously  recalled  what  the  captain  had 
said  about  his  company  taking  their  noon  rest  a 
half-mile  beyond. 

A  cavalry  company  at  that,  from  the  captain's  uni- 
form and  saber.  Probably  one  of  the  many  small 
bodies  of  horse  thrown  out  to  guard  the  rear  of  Lee's 
army  and  to  forage. 

At  any  moment  some  of  the  men  in  search  of  their 
leader  might  come  down  the  winding  path  that  led 
from  their  temporary  bivouac  to  the  hillock. 

Yet  Dad  hated  to  leave  temporarily  helpless  a  man 
whom  he  himself  had  crippled.     He  hesitated. 

"I  —  I  suppose  I  am  your  prisoner,  suh.''  "  muttered 
the  captain. 

"  You  surrender?  ''  ' 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  no  alternative.  You  have  me  at 
your  mercy.  And  this  confounded  hand  and  arm  are 
torturing  me.     They're  useless.     I  surrender." 

"  Good,"  sighed  Dad,  in  genuine  relief. 

He  was  \ery  tired.  He  wanted  to  sit  down  some- 
where and  get  back  his  breath  and  his  sorely  overtaxed 
strength. 

"  There  is  my  sword,  on  the  grass  yonder,"  went  on 

the  Southerner.     "  It  is  yours  by  right  of  war." 

260 


< 


THE  END  OF  THE  FIGHT  261 

"  My  dear  boy,"  laughed  Dad.  "  I  don't  want  your 
hardware.  Keep  it.  What  earthly  use  is  it  to  me? 
It's  a  saber.     And  I'm  an  infantry  officer." 

"  It  is  customary,  suh,  as  you  know,"  stiffly  returned 
the  captain,  "  for  a  prisoner  to  give  up  his  sword 
to—" 

"  But,  man,  dear,  you're  not  my  prisoner,"  inter- 
rupted Dad.  "  /  don't  want  you.  What  would  I  do 
with  you?  There  are  more  men  in  the  prisons  now 
than  we  can  afford  to  feed  well." 

"  Do  I  understand,  suh,"  asked  the  bewildered  cap- 
tain, "  that  you  release  me  on  parole  ?  " 

"Parole?"  mused  Dad  reflectively.  "I  ought  to, 
I  suppose,  I  ought  to  demand  your  sacred  word  of 
honor  that  you'll  never  again  draw  sword  in  the  Cause 
you  think  is  right.  That  you  go  back  home,  eat- 
ing your  heart  out,  while  your  brothers  are  at  the 
front. 

"  But  I've  had  much  those  same  things  happen  to 
me  in  my  time.  And  it's  a  hell  I  wouldn't  send  my 
worst  enemy  through. 

"  No,  Mister  Confed,  Fm  not  going  to  parole  you 
or  any  other  man.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  you're 
free  to  do  what  you  want  to." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  — " 

"  By  the  way,"  went  on  Dad,  "  I  had  my  grandson 
borrow  your  horse.  I'm  sorry.  It  was  a  military  ne- 
cessity. You  can  take  that  sorrel  over  there  in  its 
place.  The  horse  is  foundered,  I'm  afraid,  but  your 
regimental  farrier  can  bring  him  back  to  condition  in 


262  "  DAD  " 

a  day  or  so.  And  he's  got  good  blood  and  plenty  of 
speed  in  him." 

"  You  mean,  suh,"  muttered  the  captain,  dazed, 
*'  that  after  capturing  me  you'll  give  me  ^ot  only  my 
freedom  but  a  horse,  as  well  ?  " 

"  I've  tried  to  make  it  plain,"  said  Dad  patiently. 

The  captain  made  as  though  to  speak;  then  turned 
his  head  abruptly  away.  When  he  faced  Dad  again, 
the  look  of  physical  pain  in  the  sleepy  eyes  was  all  but 
effaced  by  one  of  utter  shame. 

**  It  is  only  fair  to  tell  you,  suh,"  he  began  j  erkily, 
his  glance  downcast,  like  a  scolded  schoolboy,  "  it's 
only  fair  to  tell  you  that  I  had  every  intention,  a  while 
back,  of  taking  you  and  your  orderly  prisoner  and 
turning  you  over  to  our  provost  marshal  to  be  shipped 
off  to  prison." 

"Well,"  responded  Dad,  "suppose  you  had? 
That  is  your  affair.  Every  man  to  his  own  whim. 
Perhaps  when  you  get  to  my  age,  friend,  you'll  think 
twice  before  sticking  a  harmless  old  codger  and  a  little 
boy  into  the  living  death  of  a  war  prison.  Or  perhaps 
you  won't.  It  is  your  own  affair,  as  I  told  you.  And 
now  let  me  finish  with  those  hurts  of  yours.  I  must 
be  on  my  way." 

Briskly,  if  a  whit  stiffly,  he  went  on  with  his  "  first 
aid  "  work.  The  Confederate,  as  in  a  trance,  sat  still, 
and  let  his  conqueror  work  over  him.  He  seemed  for 
the  time  bereft  of  the  power  of  speech. 

Emp,  ordered  back  by  his  master  and  scolded  by 
Dad  for  interfering,  had  sat  gravely  on  the  hillock  top, 


THE  END  OF  THE  FIGHT  263 

and  with  cocked  head  and  critical  eye  had  surveyed  the 
combat  below.  Still  brooding  over  Jimmie's  defection 
and  the  cruel  order  not  to  follow,  the  dog  remained  on 
the  hilltop  and,  the  fight  being  over,  fell  to  studying 
the  world  at  large  in  the  hope  of  seeing  his  master  re- 
turn, penitent  at  his  act  of  desertion,  and  make  friends 
with  him  again. 

But  Jimmie  did  not  come  back.  Once  Emp  thought 
the  boy  was  drawing  near,  for  his  keen-pricked  ears 
caught  the  sound  of  approaching  horse-hoofs. 

A  second  of  listening,  however,  told  him  that  these 
hoofs  were  walking;  not  galloping.  Also,  that  there 
were  several  horses  approaching  in  single  file  and  from 
a  direction  opposite  to  that  in  which  Jimmie  had  van- 
ished. 

The  hoof-beats  drew  nearer.  Emp's  watchdog  in- 
stincts —  one  of  his  multi-breed  ancestors  having  per- 
haps been  guardian  of  a  farmstead  —  stirred  within 
him.  War  experience  had  taught  him  that  where  there 
were  horses  there  were  likely  to  be  men. 

Indeed,  his  twitching,  moist  nostrils  had  already 
caught  the  scent  of  men  —  several  men  —  strange  men, 
approaching. 

These  outsiders  assuredly  had  no  right  to  intrude 
on  Dad  and  the  new  friend,  who  were  resting  so  com- 
fortably. Emp's  fur,  between  the  shoulders  and  then 
down  along  the  spine-ridge,  began  to  bristle  with  resent- 
ment. 

Far  down  in  his  thirsty  throat  a  growling 
"  Woof !  "  was  bom.     Then  another. 


264  "  DAD  " 

Then  the  dog  jumped  to  his  feet,  the  stifled  growls 
bursting  forth  In  a  storm  of  yapping  barks. 

Dad,  at  the  shrill  warning,  glance^  up  from  his  task 
of  surgery.  He  glanced  up  —  to  see  at  the  path's  end, 
a  few  yards  distant,  a  half-dozen  lean,  finely  mounted 
Confederate  cavalrymen,  seated  carelessly  in  their  sad- 
dles and  eying  in  grave  astonishment  the  unusual  spec- 
tacle of  a  Federal  infantry  major  tending  the  hurts 
of  a  Confederate  cavalry  officer. 

"  Fortune  of  war !  "  remarked  Dad,  with  dreary  phi- 
losophy. 

At  his  words,  the  Confederate  captain  looked  up. 
And  he,  too,  saw  the  clump  of  gray-clad  troopers, 
barely  ten  yards  off^,  staring  down  at  him. 

As  they  met  their  captain's  eyes,  the  cavalrymen's 
hands  went  up  in  salute.  But  their  gaze  still  rested 
in  wonder  on  the  odd  scene  that  lay  before  them. 

"  Friend,"  said  Dad  to  the  captain,  **  there's  a  favor 
I'd  like  to  ask  of  you." 

The  Confederate  looked  up  at  him  in  quick  surprise. 

**  It's  this,"  continued  Dad.  "  My  sword  here  was 
given  me  by  someone  —  by  someone  I  care  for.  I  wish 
you'd  keep  track  of  what  becomes  of  it  and  where  it's 
stored.  Because  some  day  I'm  likely  to  be  exchanged 
or  set  free  in  some  other  way,  and  when  I  am  I  want 
to  get  it  back  if  I  can." 

*'  I  —  I  don't  understand  it,  suh,"  said  the  captain. 

Dad  nodded  toward  the  troopers. 

"  There  doesn't  seem  much  mystery  about  it,"  he 
said.     "  Both  of  my  horses  up  there  are  too  tired  to 


THE  END  OF  THE  FIGHT  265 

go  much  above  a  walk.  Even  if  I  could  get  to  one  of 
them,  jour  men  would  overhaul  me  before  I'd  ridden 
fifty  feet.  And  your  men  are  between  me  and  the  only 
cover  I  could  hide  in  if  I  should  try  to  get  away  on 
foot." 

"  My  men?  "  repeated  the  captain  dully.  "  Oh,  yes ! 
My  men.     I'd  forgotten." 

Rousing  himself  by  strong  effort  from  the  inertia 
due  to  exhaustion  and  pain,  he  turned  toward  the 
troopers. 

"  Fauquier !  "  he  drawled. 

A  corporal  saluted. 

''  Go  back  to  camp  and  have  a  stretcher  brought  here 
for  me.  I'm  hurt.  Take  the  men  with  you.  'Ten- 
tion !     Threes  about !     Wheel !     Trot!  " 

Obedient,  if  still  wondering,  the  perfectly  disciplined 
Southern  cavalrymen  wheeled  and  trotted  ofF  in  double 
rank  of  threes  along  the  path  and  its  bush-encroaching 
sides. 

"  Suh,"  continued  the  captain,  turning  back  to  Dad, 
"  you  seem  to  have  a  singularly  queer  opinion  of  a  Vir- 
ginia officer's  sense  of  decency.  May  I  correct  it  by 
suggesting  you  mount  one  of  those  two  horses  up  yon- 
der and  get  well  out  of  the  way  before  my  men  come 
back?     Good  day,  sir, 

"  And  —  thank  you  for  a  lesson  in  wrestling  —  and 
—  and  in  other  things." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

BATTI.E    JIMMIE,    COURIER 

BATTLE  JIMMIE  was  riding. 
If  his  general  posture  on  the  black  thorough- 
bred's back  tended  to  suggest  a  monkey  strapped  to  the 
back  of  a  circus  pony,  he  was  none  the  less  riding.     And 
at  a  breakneck  speed. 

Wholly  ignorant  of  horsemanship's  finer  shades,  he 
yet  had  two  great  qualifications  for  a  jockey:  the  light- 
est of  weight  and  a  stark  dearth  of  fear. 

He  kicked  his  heels  into  the  black  sides  of  his  mount 
just  as  often  as  he  could  remain  in  any  one  spot 
long  enough  to  direct  the  kick,  and  ever  and  again  he 
would  release  his  grip  on  the  mane  long  enough  to  wal- 
lop the  straining  black  flanks  with  the  bearing-rein  he 
still  held. 

The  splendid  thoroughbred  needed  none  of  these  in- 
centives to  flight.  Indignant  at  his  new  rider's  gawky 
horsemanship  and  at  his  ignorance  at  the  way  a  blooded 
horse  should  be  handled,  the  black  none  the  less  realized 
that  he  was  called  upon  to  display  his  fleetest  pace. 

And  he  did  it. 

The  futile  little  heel-thumps  and  the  occasional  larrup 

of  the  bearing-rein  hurt  the  horse  not  at  all.     But  they 

Q66 


BATTLE  JIMMIE,  COURIER  267 

insulted  his  feelings,  and  he  took  out  his  indignation  in 
the  form  of  frantic  speed. 

Ears  flattened  back,  head  and  neck  in  straight  line 
with  the  withers;  long,  sinuous  black  body  stretched 
out  close  to  earth,  the  beautiful  black  cleared  the  un- 
even ground  like  a  swallow. 

A  veteran  of  wild  Virginia  fox-hunts,  the  rough  go- 
ing was  as  nothing  to  him.  Hill,  plowed  field,  and 
gully  were  traversed  as  easily  as  level  sward. 

The  rider's  weight  was  a  bagatelle,  but  the  rider's 
behavior  was  a  gross  affront. 

Jimmie,  in  his  earlier  and  runaway  ride  of  the  day, 
had  not  been  too  excited  to  note  his  general  direction  — 
a  trait  taught  him  by  Dad  years  before  in  their  rambles 
through  the  Ohio  forests  beyond  Ideala. 

And  the  habit  served  him  well  to-day,  for  he  was 
able  with  no  difficulty  to  follow  his  former  route  on  the 
return  journey. 

The  black  charger  was  perfectly  amenable  to  the 
reins'  guidance,  and  his  gait  was  as  easy  as  a  hobby- 
horse's. 

Presently  the  few  spires  of  Frederick  came  into  view ; 
then  the  house  roofs.  Topping  another  rise,  Jimmie 
found  he  was  a  scant  fifty  feet  from  the  Frederick 
road. 

For  safer  and  smoother  travel  he  guided  his  horse  to 
it,  the  black  clearing  a  low  wall  and  ditch  without  break- 
ing his  smooth  stride. 

Down  the  Frederick  pike  the  headlong  ride  con- 
tinued.    At  a  turn  of  the  road  two  Union  sentinels 


268  "  DAD  " 

slung  their  guns  forward  and  demanded  the  pass-word. 
Jimmie  had  reached  the  Federal  outposts. 

The  black  sped  between  the  two ,  forward-pressing 
sentries,  and  Jimmie  yelled: 

"  Courier !     Dispatches  for  General  McClellan !  '* 

Seeing  that  the  boy  was  in  blue  uniform,  the  sentinels 
did  not  make  even  a  futile  effort  to  detain  him. 

Not  until  he  had  whirled  past  in  a  cloud  of  dust  did 
one  of  them  belatedly  recall  that  the  horse's  saddle  had 
borne  in  brass  the  letters  "  C.  S.  A.,''  instead  of  "  U.  S. 
A." 

And  he  and  his  comrade  fell  to  speculating  bewilder- 
edly  as  to  why  a  small-boy  courier  in  Union  uniform 
should  happen  to  be  riding  on  a  Confederate  cavalry 
saddle. 

On  galloped  Jimmie,  giving  the  dust  to  the  few  riders 
and  pedestrians,  who  now  began  to  appear  on  the  white 
turnpike. 

Into  Frederick  and  through  its  unpaved,  rutted 
main  street  galloped  the  lad.  The  street  through 
which,  less  than  a  week  earlier,  Stonewall  Jackson  had 
led  his  dusty  legions. 

From  an  upper  window  of  one  of  the  thoroughfare's 
wooden  houses  (according  to  a  tale  as  apocryphal  as  it 
was  dramatic)  aged  Barbaria  Frietchie  had  waved  the 
bullet-ridden  stars  and  stripes  and  by  her  gallant  loy- 
alty had  touched  the  chivalric  Southern  chief's  heart. 

The  sole  basis  for  the  Barbara  Frietchie  legend,  more- 
over, according  to  Jackson's  own  tale  and  his  staff's, 
was  this: 


BATTLE  JIMMIE,  COURIER  ^69 

As  the  Confederate  swung  down  the  street  two  little 
girls,  each  waving  a  tiny  American  flag,  ran  out  from 
the  sidewalk  and  shook  their  flags  defiantly  —  almost 
in  Jackson's  very  face  —  whereat,  instead  of  fiercely 
ordering  the  flags  to  be  fired  on,  Jackson  had  turned 
to  one  of  his  aids  and  smilingly  commented : 

"  We  don't  seem  to  be  especially  popular  here." 

Jimmie,  who  had  heard  of  neither  the  fact  nor  the 
more  inspiring  legend,  dashed  on,  looking  neither  to 
right  nor  left.  His  horse,  wholly  unaided  by  the  rider, 
eluded  the  scant  traflic  of  the  street  and  saved  Jimmie 
from  more  than  one  bad  collision. 

Pedestrians  scattered  to  left  and  right  before  the 
thundering  hoofs  and  yelled  angry  warnings  after  the 
fast-disappearing  horseman.  Mounted  military  men 
drew  to  one  side  and  laughed  aloud  at  the  scarlet-faced 
little  figure  bunched  over  on  the  withers  of  the  great 
charger. 

Through  the  street  and  beyond  galloped  Jimmie. 
He  drew  up  at  last  (with  a  suddenness  that  sent  the 
horse  back  on  his  haunches  and  the  rider  well-nigh  over 
his  mount's  ears)  in  front  of  a  house  whose  walk  from 
porch  to  road  was  patrolled  by  a  sentinel. 

On  the  veranda  lounged  several  gaudily  attired  staff 
officers.  From  the  porch  roof  jutted  a  white  flagstaff, 
gold-eagle  crowned,  supporting  a  huge  silken  American 
flag. 

A  quarter-mile  away  that  morning  Dad  had  pointed 
out  the  house  to  his  grandson  as  temporary  head- 
quarters of  Major-General  George  Brinton  McClellan, 


270  "  DAD  " 

commander  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  —  a  leader  who 
partly  for  the  sake  of  his  middle  name  had  always  held 
Jimmie's  admiring  curiosity. 

Off  the  horse  scrambled  the  boy,  his  body  aching  all 
over,  and  his  short,  cramped  legs  all  but  doubling  under 
him.     Through  the  gate  he  lurched  and  up  the  path. 

The  sentinel  halted  him  before  he  had  taken  three 
steps. 

"  Courier !  Dispatches ! "  snapped  Jimmie,  and 
forestalled  further  argument  or  delay  by  ducking 
nimbly  under  the  soldier's  arm  and  scampering  for  the 
porch. 

"  Courier !  Dispatches ! "  he  repeated  grandilo- 
quently to  the  veranda's  occupants  at  large  as  he 
climbed  the  steps.     "  Where's  General  McClellan?  " 

A  gorgeous  staff  officer  bustled  forward,  stepping  of- 
ficiously between  the  boy  and  the  open  front  door  of  the 
house. 

"  Dispatches  ? "  echoed  the  officer.  "  Give  them 
here." 

"  Not  much  I  won't !  "  retorted  Jimmie.  "  These  are 
for  General  McClellan.     They  aren't  for  anyone  else." 

"  I  am  General  McClellan's  acting  secretary,"  the  of- 
ficer announced  harshly,  his  dignity  rasped  by  a  laugh 
from  fellow  officers  lounging  near  by. 

The  spectacle  of  a  small  boy  In  a  big  uniform,  caked 
with  dust  and  horse-foam,  defying  the  pompous  acting 
secretary  was  one  of  mild  joy  to  everyone. 

"  I  am  General  McClellan's  acting  secretary,"  re- 
peated the  officer  Impatiently.     "  I  wIU  take  — " 


BATTLE  JIMMIE,  COURIER  271 

"  I  wouldn't  care  If  you  was  his  maiden  aunt,"  de- 
clared Jimmie  stoutly,  "  Dad  told  me  to  give  a  paper 
to  General  McClellan  himself.  He  didn't  say  any- 
thing about  giving  it  to  anyone  else  —  even  if  the  some- 
one else  happened  to  be  wearing  seven  diff'rent  kinds  of 
gold  lace.  And  what  Dad  tells  me  to  do  goes.  Where's 
General  McClellan?" 

"Who's  ^  Dad,'  sonny?"  laughed  a  colonel  who  was 
sprawling  in  the  sun  on  the  steps. 

"  He's  my  superior  off'cer,"  returned  Jimmie.  "  And 
he  told  me  to — " 

"  Here !  "  snorted  the  secretary.  "  If  you've  got 
any  papers,  you  little  ragamuffin,  give  them  to  me.  If 
you  haven't,  be  oif,  or  I'll  take  my  riding-switch  to  you. 
I—" 

"  Look !  "  gasped  Jimmie  melodramatically,  point- 
ing a  trembling,  stubby  forefinger  over  the  secretary's 
shoulder. 

The  secretary  involuntarily  turned.  Jimmie  on  the 
instant  darted  past  him  through  the  door  and  into  the 
hallway  beyond. 

The  dimmer  light  half-blinded  the  boy,  coming  as  he 
did  from  the  glare  of  the  street.  But  he  dared  not 
pause.  Vaguely,  half-way  down  the  long  hallway,  he 
saw  a  sentinel  posted  in  front  of  one  of  several  closed 
doors. 

Jimmie  needed  no  further  directions.  He  made  for 
that  door.  And  the  sentinel,  who  had  beheld  the  scene 
on  the  porch,  made  for  Jimmie. 

The  boy  halted  and  attempted  to  dodge.     Out  went 


272  "  DAD  " 

the  sentry's  arms  to  seize  him.  And,  with  a  sudden 
lunge  forward,  crash  went  Jimmie's  bullet-head  into  the 
pit  of  the  soldier's  stomach. 

The  sentinel  doubled  up  in  pain.  'But  as  he  did  so 
he  managed  to  seize  the  boy  by  the  coat-collar. 

Wriggling  eel-like  from  the  too  loose  garment,  Jim- 
mie  leaped  at  the  closed  door,  flung  it  open,  rushed  into 
the  room  beyond  and  slammed  the  door  shut  again  be- 
hind him. 

Two  men  were  talking  earnestly  in  an  embrasure  by  a 
window. 

One  of  them  Jimmie  recognized  at  once  as  Gen- 
eral Hooker  whom  Dad  had  pointed  out  to  him  a  few 
days  earlier.  The  shorter  and  stockier  man  he  also 
recognized  from  a  hundred  photographs  he  had  seen. 

Plunging  one  hand  into  his  shirt-bosom,  and  pulling 
forth  the  precious  wad  of  paper,  Battle  Jimmie  raised 
the  other  in  salute. 

"  General  McClellan,"  he  said,  "  Dad  told  me  to  give 
you  this.  He  says  a  whole  lot  depends  on  it.  Read 
it.  It's  more  interesting,  maybe,  than  it  sounds.  Read 
it!'' 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

JIMMIE    AND    THE    GEN^ERAlrS 

THE  two  men  had  spun  about  from  the  window  as  the 
small  human  whirlwind  burst  into  the  room.  Jim- 
mie's  first  words  had  been  launched  at  McClellan  with 
almost  incoherent  velocity. 

The  army  of  the  Potomac's  commander  frowned  in 
annoyed  perplexity  at  the  disheveled  little  apparition 
and  the  almost  shouted  address.  Hooker,  on  the  con- 
trary, stared  for  an  instant,  then  burst  into  a  great 
guffaw. 

The  next  moment  the  door  burst  open  again. 

In  rushed  the  military  secretary,  very  purple  of  face. 
Behind  him  was  the  stomach-smitten  sentinel,  his  visage 
still  greenish  and  pain-twisted  from  the  blow. 

"  General ! "  spluttered  the  secretary.  "I  — 
this—" 

"What  does  this  mean?''  sternly  demanded  Mc- 
Clellan, finding  his  voice.  The  sentinel,  at  a  gesture 
from  the  secretary,  collared  the  boy  again  and  started 
to  carry  him  bodily  from  the  room. 

"  Wait,  you !  "  shrilled  Jimmie.  "  You  lemme  go ! 
There's  more  to  my  message.  I  forgot.  Dad  told  me 
to  tell  — " 

*^  Shut  up,  you  crazy  little  scarecrow ! "  growled  the 

273 


274  "  DAD  " 

sentinel  under  his  breath,  bestowing  a  vicious  shake 
which  the  boy  promptly  resented  by  an  excruciating 
kick  on  his  captor's  shins. 

"  Dad  told  me  to  tell  you  how  we^  came  to  find  the 
paper,"  finished  Jimmie  loudly.  "  We  picked  it  up  on 
a  hill  out  — " 

The  sentinel  had  him  at  the  door  of  the  room  by  this 
time,  the  empurpled  secretary  bringing  up  the  rear. 

McClellan,  into  whose  hand  Jimmie  had  thrust  the 
crumpled  and  far  from  clean  bunch  of  paper,  let  the 
document  drop  to  the  floor. 

"  Wait !  "  yelled  the  boy  in  despair.  "  A  lot  de- 
pends on  it.     Dad — " 

"  The  brat  is  crazy,"  declared  the  secretary.  "  He 
came  to  the  house  here  just  now  and  said  he  was  a — " 

"  Dad  told  me,"  squealed  Jimmie,  clinging  to  the 
door- jamb  and  hanging  on  for  dear  life  as  the  sentinel 
sought  to  yank  him  free,  "  that  I  must  — " 

"  Shut  up !  "  exhorted  the  sentry.  "  And  let  go 
there!" 

"  A  thousand  apologies,  sir,"  went  on  the  secretary 
to  McClellan,  "  for  my  allowing  this  intrusion  upon 
your  conference.  It  was  not  my  fault,  nor  " —  gener- 
ously — "  was  it  this  sentinel's.  I  saw  the  boy  assault 
him.     He—" 

"  General  McClellan !  "  howled  Jimmie.  "  Pick  up 
that  paper  and  read  it !     Dad  says  it  — " 

"  The  boy,"  babbled  on  the  secretary  to  all  concerned, 
"  was  riding  a  horse  with  a  *  C.  S.  A.'  cavalry  saddle. 
He—" 


JIMMIE  AND  THE  GENERALS         275 

"  Pick  it  up  and  read  it !  "  wailed  Jimmie  again,  feel- 
ing his  hold  on  the  door-jamb  slacken  under  the  mighty 
yanking  of  the  sentinel. 

The  soldier  loosened  one  tugging  hand  from  Jimmie's 
shoulder  long  enough  to  administer  a  sound  cuff  on  the 
lad's  ear.  Jimmie  retaliated  this  time  by  flinging  his 
head  back  sharply  an8  with  the  crown  of  it  catching  the 
sentry  a  grievous  whack  on  the  chin. 

"  Lemme  go !  "  he  grunted.  "  Dad  says  the  whole 
army's  fate  depends  on  — " 

"  Shall  I  have  him  turned  over  to  the  provost-mar- 
shal, sir?  "  obsequiously  queried  the  secretary,  "  or — " 

"Wait!" 

It  was  "  Fighting  Joe  "  Hooker  who,  choking  back 
his  helpless  laughter,  shouted  the  order. 

The  secretary,  his  question  half-uttered,  shut  his 
mouth  and  stood  at  attention.  The  sentinel  paused 
with  uplifted  fist  poised  in  the  act  of  seeking  vengeance 
for  the  jaw-blow  that  had  made  him  see  stars  and  had 
loosened  two  of  his  best  teeth. 

Even  McClellan  turned  from  the  turmoil  to  stare  in 
surprise  at  his  subordinate  general. 

"  Wait !  "  repeated  Hooker.  "  By  your  leave.  Gen- 
eral McClellan?" 

He  glanced  at  his  chief  for  permission  to  take  over 
the  situation.     McClellan  nodded. 

"  I  think,  general,"  went  on  Hooker,  "  with  your  con- 
sent, we  can  do  worse  than  to  wait  for  a  minute  or  so 
I  don't  at  all  understand  what  any  of  this  means.  But 
one  or  two  things  lead  me  to  think  it  may  be  worth  a 


9rt6  "  DAD  '* 

question  or  two.  It  isn't  an  every-day  occurrence  for 
a  boy  in  Federal  uniform  trousers  to  ride  up  on  a  Con- 
federate army  horse  and  fight  his  way  into  the  com- 
manding general's  presence,  just  for  the  sake  of  hand- 
ing that  commanding  general  a  bunch  of  Soiled  waste 
paper.  May  I  suggest,  general,  that  we  let  the  boy 
wait  here  an  instant  while  we  glance  at  the  paper?  " 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  crumpled  sheet,  hand- 
ling its  unclean  outer  side  gingerly  as  he  proceeded  to 
unfold  it.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  written  words.  The 
others  standing  at  gaze,  McClellan  vexedly  chewing  his 
mustache. 

Hooker's  thin  face  wore  a  mask  of  crass  perplexity 
as  his  eyes  ran  down  the  sheet. 

"  General  McClellan !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  uncer- 
tain. 

He  handed  the  paper  to  his  superior,  who  received  it 
as  under  protest  and  cast  his  eye  over  its  first  few  lines. 
Then  his  face  all  at  once  took  on  an  aspect  of  amaze, 
ludicrously  like  that  of  Hooker. 

McClellan  strode  hastily  to  the  window  embrasure, 
followed  by  Hooker.  Side  by  side,  their  backs  to  the 
others,  the  two  generals  read  and  reread  the  paper. 

Then  they  fell  into  eager,  excited  conversation,  speak- 
ing in  tense  whispers. 

Meantime  the  gorgeous  secretary  stood  looking 
blankly  at  their  backs.  The  sentinel,  his  hand  still  on 
Jimmie's  shirt-collar,  stared  at  everybody  in  turn, 
mouth  ajar. 

Jimmie  alone  had  no  special  interest  in  the  proceed- 


JIMMIE  AND  THE  GENERALS         £77 

ings.  He  had  delivered  the  mysteriously  precious 
paper  into  General  McClellan's  own  hands,  as  Dad  had 
bidden  him;  and  General  McClellan  had  read  it. 

Nothing  remained  now  but  to  obey  Dad's  second  com- 
mand to  tell  McClellan  how  and  where  the  paper  had 
been  found.  And  as  the  sentinel  had  been  called  off 
from  ejecting  him  from  the  room,  there  was  every  pros- 
pect that  he  would  be  able  to  perform  this  part  of  his 
mission,  too. 

But  all  in  good  time. 

At  present  General  McClellan  seemed  far  too  busy  to 
listen.  Soon,  no  doubt,  he  would  get  through  making 
conjectures  and  begin  to  ask  questions.  That  was  the 
way  with  grown  people. 

In  the  mean  time  Jimmie  had  a  chance  to  recall  that 
he  himself  was  a  very  tired,  very  ill-treated,  very  sore 
and  dusty  and  thirsty  and  battered  little  boy. 

Also,  that  Dad  was  far  away  from  him  and  so  was 
Emp.  And  he  was  among  strangers  who  hadn't  seemed 
especially  glad  to  see  him  and  who  surely  had  treated 
him  with  more  roughness  than  was  absolutely  needful. 

Jimmie  began  to  feel  excessively  sorry  for  himself. 
In  fact,  he  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  most  unmanly  and 
overweening  desire  to  cry. 

He  was  heartily  ashamed  of  such  a  babyish  impulse. 
He  was  a  man  of  fifteen.  But  a  very  great  many  things 
had  happened  to  him  that  day,  and  the  day  was  not  yet 
over. 

He  choked  back  the  big  lump  in  his  throat  and  tried 
to  square  his  shoulders  and  throw  back  his  chest,  no 


278  "  DAD  " 

easy  feat  when  the  great,  hulking  sentinel's  grip  was 
still  on  his  shirt-collar,  almost  choking  him.  Jimmie 
found  himself  wondering  just  how  soon  he  could  hope 
to  be  big  enough  and  strong  enough  to  lick  a  man  of  — 
well,  of  that  sentinel's  size! 

Presently  the  wondering,  whispered  colloquy  between 
the  two  generals  in  the  window  embrasure  ended.  Mc- 
Clellan  and  Hooker  came  back  toward  the  center  of  the 
room. 

McClellan  seated  himself  at  the  table  there,  and  with 
a  word  dismissed  the  sentry,  who,  releasing  Jimmie,  de- 
parted. The  secretary,  at  a  gesture  from  the  general, 
followed  the  soldier,  shutting  the  door  behind  him, 

"  Come  here,  my  boy,"  said  McClellan  kindly. 

Jimmie  advanced.  He  felt  no  special  awe  for  this 
great  little  man.  All  he  wanted  was  to  complete  his 
mission,  get  back  to  Dad's  tent,  and  rest  for  a  long,  long 
while. 

He  wondered  when  Dad  would  return,  and  he  resolved 
to  learn  from  him  every  minutest  detail  of  the  duel. 
That  Dad  would  worst  his  opponent  Jimmie  had  not 
the  faintest  doubt. 

For  was  not  Dad  —  was  he  not  Dad? 

"  Tell  me,"  General  McClellan  was  saying,  "  where 
and  how  did  you  get  this  paper?  " 

"  We  found  it  up  on  the  top  of  a  hill.  It  was  lying 
there.     The  wind  blew  it  in  front  of  my  horse  and  — " 

"  What  hill?  "  interposed  Hooker.     "  Where?  " 

"  Out  yonder.  Miles  the  other  side  of  Frederick. 
Out  toward  Sharpesburg." 


JIMMIE  AND  THE  GENERALS  279 

"  Sharpesburg?  "  echoed  McClellan.  "  Right  in  the 
track  of  the  Confederate  rear-guard.  D.  H.  Hill's  di- 
vision.    You  must  have  been  well  beyond  our  lines." 

"  We  were,"  said  Jimmie. 

"  The  paper  was  lying  on  the  ground,  you  say?  " 

"  Yes.  Partly  folded  up,  like  it  had  dropped  out  of 
somebody's  pocket,"  said  Jimmie,  seeking  to  finish  the 
story  and  get  away.  "  But  the  wind  had  opened  it  a 
little  and  it  blew  into  the  air,  and  my  horse  shied  and  I 
got  thrown  —  he  was  running  away,  anyhow  —  and 
then  Emp  grabbed  the  paper,  and  I  took  it  away  from 
him  and  read  some  of  it  aloud.  Just  for  fun.  And 
Dad  grabbed  it  and  — " 

"  Hold  on !  Hold  on !  "  demanded  McClellan.  "  Go 
more  slowly.  It  doesn't  make  sense.  Who  are  Emp 
and  Dad  and  — " 

"  Emp,"  said  Jimmie  in  a  tone  of  laboriously  patient 
explanation  as  to  a  stupid  pupil  — "  Emp  is  my  dog. 
That  isn't  all  his  name;  it's  just  the  short  of  it.  Dad's 
my  grandfather.  He's  a  brevet-major.  I'm  Jim  Brin- 
ton." 

"Brinton?"  queried  McClellan,  repeating  his  own 
middle  name. 

''  The  soldiers  call  me  '  Battle  Jimmie,'  "  explained 
the  lad. 

"  Battle  Jimmie !  "  cried  Hooker.  "  So  you're  the 
youngster  who  — " 

"  Yes,  sir.  I'm  that  one.  Shall  I  go  on  about  the 
paper  ?  " 

"  Yes.     More  slowly." 


280  "  DAD  " 

"  Dad  read  it,  and  he  got  all  het  up  over  It.  And 
he  said  it  must  get  here  right  away.  That  everything 
depended  on  it.  And  that  must  be  so,  'cause  Dad 
knows.'^ 

"So  he  sent  you  here  with  it?"  asked  McClellan. 
"  If  he  is  an  officer  in  the  army  here,  it  would  have 
saved  time  and  explanation  if  he  had  brought  it  here 
himself." 

"  How  could  he  ?  "  flared  Jimmie  instantly  aflame  at 
the  implied  slur  on  his  idol.  "How  could  he?  Tell 
me  that.     He  couldn't  stop  fighting,  could  he?  " 

"  Fighting?  No  skirmish  on  the  Sharpesburg  road 
has  been  reported  here.  What  troops  were  engaged? 
Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Dad  was.     And  the  Confed,  of  course." 

"  What  Confederate?  "  asked  the  exasperated  gen- 
eral. 

"  The  one  I  left  Dad  thrashing.  The  one  who  said 
we  were  his  prisoners.  Dad  licked  him  long  before 
this." 

"  Hold  on,  sonny,"  intervened  Hooker,  forestalling  a 
movement  of  vexed  bewilderment  on  McClellan's  part. 
*'  Let's  get  this  straight.  Just  answer  my  questions  as 
simply  as  you  can." 

In  a  dozen  well-put  queries  Hooker  got  from  the  boy 
the  whole  story,  beginning  with  the  runaway  and  end- 
ing with  Jimmie's  arrival  at  headquarters. 

McClellan's  face  lost  its  look  of  impatience  as  he 
listened;  and  it  lighted  into  keen  interest. 

"  This  Dad  of  yours  must  be  a  paladin  of  valor,  be- 


JIMMIE  AND  THE  GENERALS  281 

sides  having  a  quick,  cool  brain  of  his  own,"  he  com- 
mented as  Jimmie  finished.  "  His  country  owes  him  an 
unpayable  debt  for  sending  this  dispatch  to  me  so 
promptly.  It  is  more  important  than  I  could  make 
you  understand.  By  the  way,  you  haven't  told  us  his 
name?  " 

"His  name?  Dad's?  Why,  he's  Brevet-Major 
James  Dadd.     I  thought  I  told  you  that." 

The  two  generals  exchanged  a  quick  glance  that  was 
quite  lost  on  Jimmie. 

"  James  Dadd !  "  exclaimed  McClellan. 

"  James  Brinton,"  gravely  corrected  Hooker. 

Jimmie  wheeled  on  him. 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  he  demanded  truculently, 
eyes  ablaze  and  red  hair  bristling. 

"  Never    mind    that,    my    lad ! "    laughed    Hooker. 

a  T        >? 

"  Look  here,  you ! "  cried  Jimmie,  trembling  with 
fierce  indignation.  "  Now  that  you  people  have  spied 
on  Dad  and  spotted  his  secret,  I  s'pose  you'll  want  to 
turn  him  out  of  the  army.  He  said  you  might.  He 
told  me  so  before  he  joined.  Well,  if  you  do,  it'll  be 
the  rottenest  trick  anyone  ever  played.  He's  the  dand- 
iest fighter  you've  got.  And  he's  the  greatest  man 
that  ever  was. 

"  Aw,  let  him  stay !  "  he  went  on,  his  voice  changing 
to  an  eager  plea.  "  Let  him  stay !  It'll  kill  him  to  be 
kicked  out  just  when  he's  doing  so  fine  and  everything. 
Please  let  him  stay.  It  wasn't  his  fault  he  was  turned 
out  of  the  army  the  other  time,  back  in  Mexico.     Gee ! 


28a  "  DAD  " 

if  I  could  get  you  to  understand  what  a  grand  man  he 
is  —     Why,  the  fellers  in  the  regiment  — ^" 

Hooker  put  a  big,  kindly  hand  almost,  in  caress  on  the 
boy's  heaving  shoulder. 

"  There,  lad !  "  he  said  in  rough  gentleness.  "  Don't 
waste  all  your  good  powder  blazing  into  the  air. 
There's  no  more  danger  of  your  Dad  being  kicked  out 
of  the  army  than  of  Jeff  Davis  becoming  President  of 
the  United  States. 

"  We  all  know  the  story.  And  we  all  honor  him. 
Even  President  Lincoln  knows  it.  And  by  this  time 
to-morrow  President  Lincoln  will  know  what  Dad  has 
done  for  the  Union  to-day  in  getting  that  paper  to  us. 

"  Now  trot  along.  The  paper  you  brought  here  is 
going  to  keep  every  general  and  every  courier  in  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  busy  all  day  and  all  night. 
There's  no  time  to  waste  on  boys.  Not  even  on  Battle 
Jimmies.     Clear  out  and  run  along !  " 

He  gave  the  boy  a  friendly  shove  toward  the  door. 
As  Jimmie,  dazed  but  infinitely  relieved,  passed  out  he 
saw  the  two  generals,  wholly  oblivious  of  him,  bending 
once  more  over  the  paper. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

1,0  VE 

INTO  Frederick  rode  Dad,  astride  the  erstwhile  run- 
away. 

Since  passing  the  Union  outposts  he  had  let  the  tired 
horse  take  its  own  gait.  At  his  heels  trotted  Emp. 
There  was  no  hurry.     And  Dad  was  tired. 

From  the  sentry  at  the  outposts  whom  he  questioned 
he  had  learned  of  Jimmie's  whirlwind  passage  down  the 
road,  and  at  the  head  of  the  main  street  of  Frederick 
another  query  to  a  goober-vender  elicited  the  fact  that 
Jimmie  had  entered  the  town  at  a  gallop  nearly  an 
hour  earlier. 

Satisfied  thus  in  his  mind  as  to  the  safety  of  his 
grandson  and  of  the  paper's  delivery  to  McClellan,  he 
slowed  his  weary  mount  to  a  walk  and  turned  into  a  by- 
street which  formed  a  shorter  route  toward  the  Federal 
camps. 

It  was  a  pretty  lane  into  which  he  turned.  Wide- 
branched  trees  met  above  its  winding  center.  Gjolden 
glow  and  asters  and  phlox  bordered  the  little  gardens 
along  either  side. 

A  plump  gray  kitten  in  the  middle  of  the  byway  was 
valorously  stalking  a  covey  of  sparrows  that  flew  away 
in  bored  annoyance  as  she  crept  near. 


284  ''  DAD '' 

Emp  proceeded  to  pursue  the  pursuer,  who,  after 
scratching  his  nose  with  unnecessary  virulence,  ran  up 
a  tree. 

Emp  returned  sulky,  yet  relieved,  to^his  post  at  the 
horse's  heels.  The  lane  was  deserted  of  traffic.  Some- 
where in  the  arched  trees  above  a  late-season  mocking- 
bird was  piping  its  clamorous  sweet  call. 

The  afternoon  sun  shone  benignantly  through  a  yel- 
low dust-haze.  Peace  lay  everywhere.  Peace,  flowers, 
bird-song  —  and  the  brooding  hush  of  afternoon  —  in 
the  very  heart  of  a  great  war. 

A  white  cottage,  set  somewhat  back  from  the  lane 
behind  its  own  patch  of  green  lawn,  bore  across  its 
porch-front  the  sign: 


THIRD  AMBULANCE  CORPS 

Army  of  the  Potomac 
Temporary  Headquarters 


On  the  lawn  two  or  three  uniformed  nurses  sat  in 
rocking  chairs,  scraping  lint  and.  sewing.  On  cots 
along  the  narrow  porch  lay  several  gaunt-faced,  partly 
dressed  convalescents. 

Dad  instinctively  drew  his  horse  to  a  standstill  as  he 
read  the  sign.  The  sewing  nurses  on  the  lawn  glanced 
up  as  he  halted. 

One  of  them  —  a  silvery-haired  little  woman  in  gray 
i — gave  a  joyous  exclamation  and,  springing  to  her 


LOVE  285 

feet,  ran  across  to  the  open  gate  and  out  into  the  lane 
to  greet  the  rider. 

On  the  instant  Dad  was  off  his  horse  and  advancing 
with  gladly  outstretched  hands  toward  her. 

"  Emily ! "  was  all  he  could  find  voice  to  say  just  at 
first. 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  hoping  you'd  find  where  we  were, 
James !  "  she  hailed  him.  "  And  that  you'd  come  to  see 
me  before  I  left." 

"  Left?     The  corps  is  moved  again?  " 

"  No.  But  I'm  detailed  at  one  of  the  Washington 
hospitals.     I'm  to  start  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

Dad  had  passed  one  arm  through  his  horse's  bridle. 
Now,  with  a  very  proprietary  air,  he  tucked  the  little 
woman's  hand  under  his  other  arm. 

"  Walk  a  way  down  the  lane  with  me,'^  he  begged. 
"  Now  that  you're  going  to  Washington,  I  don't  know 
when  I'll  ever  see  you  again." 

Eagerly  she  assented. 

Followed  by  the  amused  smiles  of  the  group  of  nurses 
on  the  lawn,  the  two  elderly  lovers  sauntered  down  the 
deserted  lane  together,  arm  in  arm,  the  tired  horse  fol- 
lowing; the  mocking-bird  calling  to  them  from  the  in- 
terlaced green  branches  above. 

For  a  space  neither  of  them  spoke.  Dad  forgot  his 
weariness ;  forgot  everything  except  the  strangely  sweet 
new  sense  of  content;  of  reaching  at  last  a  safe  and 
perfect  haven  after  lon^  years  of  storm-tossed  mis- 
ery. 

The  little  old  lady  smiled  up  at  him. 


286  "  DAD '' 

"  It's  —  it's  kind  of  likp  home  to  be  walking  with  you, 
James,"  she  said  shyly. 

Then,  her  housewifely  eye  beginning:  to  take  in  de- 
tails, she  exclaimed: 

"  Land  sakes,  James  Brinton,  if  you  haven't  gone 
and  torn  a  great  rent  in  the  shoulder  of  your  coat! 
Such  a  careless  man  I  never  did  see !  And  you  haven't 
even  noticed  it." 

Dad  looked  down  at  the  cut  made  by  the  Confederate 
captain's  saber  when,  in  the  early  stages  of  the  en- 
counter, it  had  grazed  his  upper  arm. 

"  That's  so !  "  he  admitted  shamefacedly.  "  I  never 
noticed  it.  It  was  shiftless  of  me.  I'll  get  it  mended 
as  soon  as  I  go  back  to  camp.  You  aren't  ashamed 
to  be  seen  walking  with  a  man  who's  got  a  torn 
coat,  are  you,  Emily?"  he  finished  anxiously.  "Be- 
cause — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  another  exclamation  as  she 
looked  more  keenly  at  the  rent. 

"  And  the  shoulder  of  your  shirt,  right  under  it,  is 
torn,  too,"  she  said.  "  How  could  you  ever  get  both 
of  them  torn  like  that  and  never  know  it?  " 

She  stood  still,  disengaged  her  arm  from  his,  and, 
with  the  air  of  a  dressmaking  expert,  drew  the  sides  of 
the  coat's  rent  together. 

"  Why,  this  isn't  a  tear,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  a  cut ! 
A  clean  cut  1     How  ever  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

She  loosed  her  hold  on  the  sides  of  the  cut  and  the 
released  sections  of  cloth  opened  again. 

So  did  the  cut  shirt-sleeve  beneath  them,  revealing 


LOVE  287 

the  angry  red  welt,  like  a  whiplash  mark,  on  the  hard, 
bronzed  flesh  of  Dad's  upper  arm. 

"  James  Brinton !  "  she  accused  sternly.  "  You've 
been  fighting  again !  " 

"  Yessum !  "  he  confessed,  hanging  his  head. 

Once  more,  this  time  in  swift  solicitude,  she  was  part- 
ing the  rents  in  coat  and  shirt,  and  her  cool,  light  fin- 
gers were  on  the  burning  hot  flesh  of  the  welt. 

With  the  true  nurse's  deftness  she  explored  the  in- 
jury, sighing  with  happy  relief  on  finding  it  so  trivial. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  demanded. 

Briefly,  he  told  her;  keen  shame  possessing  him  as 
he  related,  as  modestly  as  possible,  his  exploit.  She 
had  taken  his  arm  again,  and  as  he  talked  they  re- 
sumed their  sauntering  stroll. 

When  his  recital  was  finished  she  pressed  his  arm 
tightly  for  an  instant  in  silence.     Then  — 

"  Oh,  I  thank  the  dear  Lord !  "  she  breathed.  "  He 
brought  you  back  safe !  " 

Dad's  other  hand  closed  over  hers  as  it  lay  on  his 
arm. 

"  Back  to  —  to  you,"  he  said  softly.  And  for  a 
space  they  fell  silent  once  more.  But  their  walk  waxed 
slower  and  his  hand  did  not  release  hers. 

"  Emily,"  said  Dad,  at  last,  speaking  with  a  rush, 
as  one  who  fears  his  courage  may  desert  him  at  any  mo- 
ment, ^*  I  guess  you  know  how  much  I  care.  It's  —  it's 
just  everything.  I  can't  put  it  in  any  prettier  words, 
because  it  means  so  much.  Will  —  will  you  marry 
me?" 


288  "  DAD '' 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  big  and  dewy. 

"  Why,  of  course,  James,"  she  made  answer  In  gen- 
tle wonder.     "  I  thought  you  knew  that." 

Regardless  of  the  distant  nurses,  regardless  of  pos- 
sible onlookers  from  the  scattered  wayside  houses,  Dad 
stopped  stock-still,  gathered  her  into  his  arms,  then 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

She  raised  her  lips  to  his  and  smiled  tenderly  up  at 
him. 

Then  of  a  sudden  she  drew  back  in  ostentatious  haste. 

*'  There ! "  she  declared  vehemently.  "  It's  true 
there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  Here  I  am,  a  woman 
with  a  married  daughter,  making  a  spectacle  of  myself 
in  a  public  street.  Shame  on  me !  And  shame  on  you, 
too,  Jim  Brinton !  " 

"  I  never  dreamed,"  said  Dad,  "  that  shame  could  be 
such  a  nice  thing.  But  you're  wrong  about  one  thing, 
dearie.  About  our  being  old.  For  a  lot  of  years  I've 
been  looking  on  myself  as  an  old  man.  And  now  I 
know  I'm  not.  I'm  just  a  man.  And  as  for  you,  Em- 
ily —  why,  I  don't  believe  you'd  know  how  to  be  old  if 
you  lived  to  be  a  million." 

She  laughed  gayly,  in  dainty,  old-world  coquetry. 

**  I  guess  you've  had  plenty  of  practise  in  making 
cute  speeches  like  that,  James,"  she  said,  "  You  do  it 
awful  easy." 

A  momentary  vision  of  nausea  came  to  him  of  the 
barren  stretch  of  years  at  Ideala,  when  he  had  believed 
that  all  good  women  shunned  him  as  a  drunkard ;  of  his 


LOVE  289 

pitiful  efforts  to  make  friends  with  his  son's  wife;  his 
avoidance  of  her  social-climber  women  friends. 

"  No,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I've  had  no  practise,  dear. 
None." 

She  understood. 

"I'll  —  I'll  make  it  up  to  you,  Jim! "  she  whispered 
tremulously.  "  All  of  it,  dear  man.  All  the  horrid 
lonely  years,  and  everything.     I  promise." 

Another  divine  silence,  broken  only  by  the  mocking- 
bird among  the  treetops. 

"  Emily,"  he  said,  "  the  tide  is  going  to  turn  in  this 
war.  The  next  move  will  be  the  turning-point.  And 
it'll  turn  hard.     I'll  be  in  the  thickest  of  it,  dear. 

"  But  I've  got  a  kind  of  feeling  that  I'll  get  through 
it  safe.  Because  your  love  will  be  taking  me  through 
it.     And  after  that  — " 

"  I'll  be  waiting,  Jim,"  she  said. 


1 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 

war! 

ALL  day,  along  the  steep  banks  of  Antietam  Creek, 
the  battle  had  roared  and  bellowed  and  done  its 
wholesale  murdering. 

All  day,  that  red  17th  of  September,  1862  —  "  the 
bloodiest  single  day's  fighting  of  the  Civil  War  " —  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  had  flung  itself  in  dogged  fury 
upon  the  V-shaped  position  of  the  Confederates  on  the 
creek's  farther  side. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  the  battle  of  Antietam ;  the 
first  day  having  been  consumed  in  a  more  or  less  inef- 
fectual artillery  duel,  and  in  maneuvering  for  positions 
of  strategic  advantage. 

Thanks  to  his  foreknowledge  of  Lee's  plans  —  and, 
incidentally,  thanks  to  Dad  and  Battle  Jimmie  —  Mc- 
Clellan  had  been  able  to  take  advantage  of  Lee's  moment 
of  comparative  weakness  by  forcing  battle  upon  him 
before  Stonewall  Jackson's  force  could  return  from  the 
raid  on  Harper's  Ferry. 

Thanks,  also,  to  a  delay  that  has  never  been  ex- 
plained, McClellan  had  held  off^  from  the  attack  long 
enough  to  let  Jackson's  vanguard  of  ten  thousand  men 
join  Lee. 

290 


WAR!  S91 

Still,  the  bulk  of  Jackson's  soldiers  —  the  flower  of 
the  Southern  host  —  were  still  absent  when  the  battle 
was  waged.  Jackson,  too,  whose  presence  and  whose 
counsels  at  such  a  moment  would  have  been  worth  more 
than  fifty  thousand  additional  men,  was  still  absent  at 
Harper's  Ferry. 

Lee  was  thus  coerced  by  McClellan  into  giving  bat- 
tle, with  his  ablest  leader  and  his  best  fighters  far  away. 

So  much  for  the  historic  carelessness  of  the  Confed- 
erate major-general,  D.  H.  Hill,  in  losing  an  all-impor- 
tant paper  on  the  way  from  Frederick;  a  careless- 
ness that  did  untold  harm  to  his  cause;  and  that  per- 
haps might  have  done  far  more  had  McClellan  seized 
all  his  opportunities  instead  of  merely  part  of  them. 

Yet,  as  historians  agree,  the  finding  of  the  lost  paper, 
and  its  falling  into  McClellan's  hands,  turned  the  whole 
tide  of  the  invasion  and  changed  Lee's  most  brilliant 
campaign  into  a  costly  failure.  A  failure  that  smote 
the  Confederacy  a  well-nigh  mortal  blow  on  the  bare 
heart. 

On  the  morning  of  the  seventeenth  Hooker's  corps 
was  entrenched  on  the  far  side  of  the  Antietam,  the 
creek  between  him  and  the  main  Army  of  the  Potomac. 
On  the  preceding  afternoon,  at  McClellan's  orders. 
Fighting  Joe  had  crossed  one  of  the  creek's  four  stone 
bridges,  defeated  a  Confederate  detachment  under 
Hood,  and  had  seized  on  a  position. 

Now,  on  the  seventeenth,  Hooker  received  further  or- 
ders to  attack  the  Confederate  line,  engaging  it  closely ; 
while  the  bulk  of  the  main  army  should  cross  the  creek 


292  "  DAD  "^ 

under  cover  of  the  fighting  and  throw  itself  on  the  Con- 
federates. 

The  plan  met  with  only  fair  succes^ .  General  Mans- 
field was  killed  early  in  the  action.  Hooker  was 
woun(!ed. 

The  embattled  Confederates  stood  firm  as  a  rock ;  and 
all  day  long,  at  close  quarters,  the  mutual  slaughter 
raged. 

Four  times  with  his  regiment  in  Hooker's  corps  Dad 
led  his  men  against  the  Confederate  center.  Four  times 
the  murderous  volleys  of  the  Southerners  sent  back  the 
assailants,  almost  cut  to  pieces. 

Once  more,  Battle  Jimmie  far  to  the  fore,  clanging 
on  his  deafening  drum,  the  regiment  charged  with  its 
brigade. 

Half-way  up  the  slope,  Dad  found  himself  senior 
oflScer,  not  only  of  his  regiment,  but  of  his  brigade. 

Battles  make  field-promotion  very  swift. 

Bare-headed,  sword  in  hand.  Dad  toiled  upward,  call- 
ing to  his  fast-thinning  ranks  to  close  up  and  follow. 
At  his  side  drummed  Jimmie,  crazy  with  excitement; 
screaming  mingled  insults,  praise  and  encouragement  to 
the  survivors. 

Like  some  gaunt  old  war  spirit.  Dad  raged  at  the 
head  of  his  men ;  a  cyclone  of  lead  roaring  and  whistling 
around  him.  His  example,  and  that  of  the  howling, 
drumming  boy  at  his  side,  proved  infectious. 

With  a  gasping  cheer  the  depleted  ranks  staggered 
forward  in  the  wake  of  the  gray-haired  man  and  the 


WAR!  293 

drummer.  Against  the  Confederate  batteries  they 
crashed,  headlong. 

There  was  a  melee  of  hand-to-hand  fighting  for  an 
instant ;  then  a  break  and  a  scrambling  run  on  the  part 
of  the  defenders. 

And  the  hill  was  won. 

Dad  whirled  about  on  the  handful  of  blue-coated  vic- 
tors who  clustered  around  him,  yelling  ecstatically. 

"  Bully !  "  cried  Dad.  "  Good  boys !  We've  got  the 
hill.  Now  to  hold  it  until  the  support  can  come  up. 
Captain  Fitch,  deploy  — " 

Dad  saw  ten  million  sparks  leap  into  crackling  life. 
A  billion  more  exploded  within  his  brain. 

He  fell  from  a  great,  great  height  into  a  cool  dark- 
ness that  lovingly  wrapped  itself  about  soul  and  mind 
and  body. 

Somewhere,  he  vaguely  remembered,  a  battle  was  rag- 
ing.    But  it  had  ceased  to  interest  him. 

Then  he  fell  quietly  asleep^ 

Dad  shook  off  the  sweet  lethargy  and  opened  his  eyes. 

There  was  work  to  do.  He  recalled  everything  now. 
The  senior  officers  of  his  brigade  were  dead  or  inca- 
pacitated. 

He  had  led  his  men  up  a  hill  that  vomited  fire  and 
shot.     They  had  barely  won  the  summit. 

This  surely  was  no  moment  for  their  leader  to  drop 
into  a  doze.     He  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  himself. 

With  an  effort  he  gripped  at  his  sword-hilt  —  and 


^94.  "  DAD  " 

his  fingers  closed  weakly  over  the  folds  of  a  hospital 
sheet. 

His  newly  opened  eyes  focused  at  last  —  not  on  the 
blue  sky,  with  its  hell  of  flame  and  Woke,  but  on  the 
dingy  gray  canvas  ceiling  of  a  tent. 

This  was  all  wrong.  He  raised  himself  on  one  elbow 
to  peer,  about  him. 

A  sharp  dizziness  well-nigh  made  him  swoon.  At 
the  same  instant  he  was  aware  that  the  unbearable  din 
of  musketry  and  artillery  had  ceased  and  that  soothing 
quiet  reigned  everywhere. 

Exhausted,  he  fell  back,  his  head  sinking  into  the 
depths  of  a  soft  pillow.  Someone  crossed  the  tent  has- 
tily and  stood  beside  him. 

It  was  Battle  Jimmie. 

For  the  briefest  interval,  as  he  lay  blinking  at  his 
grandson.  Dad  believed  they  were  back  at  Ideala,  and 
that  the  boy  had  crept  into  his  room,  as  had  been  his 
wont,  for  a  good-night  chat.  Then  he  noted  the  lad's 
ill-fitting  unifonn,  and  reason  came  to  its  own  again. 

For  a  full  minute  they  remained,  without  speech, 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  while  slowly  Dad's  brain 
cleared  and  he  began  to  realize  where  he  was. 

"  Dad !  "  whispered  Jimmie  at  last.  "  Dad,  do  you 
know  me?  " 

"  Know  you  ?  "  repeated  Dad,  in  a  weak  but  honestly 
surprised  voice.  "Why  shouldn't  I  know  you.'*  What 
a  crazy  question,  son,  to  ask  me !  " 

Jimmie  gripped  one  of  Dad's  hands  in  both  his  own. 

"  You're  all  right !  "  he  exulted.     "  You're  all  right ! 


WAR!  295 

The  surgeon  said  if  your  mind  was  clear  when  you  came 
to  you'd  be  out  of  danger.  Oh,  gee,  but  it's  grand  to 
have  you  alive  again !  " 

"  Alive?     What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why  —  why,  nothing,"  ended  the  boy. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  dear  lad?  "  insisted  his  grand- 
father. "  Why  shouldn't  I  be  alive  ?  I've  been  alive 
ever  since  I  can  remember.  It's  a  kind  of  habit  I  got 
into  ever  so  many  years  ago." 

Jimmie  giggled  in  sheer  relief;  a  shaky  giggle,  but 
vibrant  with  joy.  His  grandfather's  voice  was  very 
weak  and  it  faltered;  but  his  grandfather's  spirit  still 
burned  bright  and  strong. 

And  Jimmie  rejoiced. 

"  Go  ahead  and  tell  me  how  I  got  here,  and  what's 
the  matter  with  me,"  murmured  Dad  haltingly.  "  I'm 
in  a  hospital  tent,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Been  here  a  week.  Senseless  all  the 
time.  Concussion  of  the  brain,  the  sawbones  called  it. 
Said  if  you  came  out  of  it  sane  you'd  be  all  right  in  just 
a  few  days.  Oh,  but  it's  been  a  rotten  time.  Dad! 
They  let  me  stay,  because  I  wouldn't  keep  out.  But 
you  kept  looking  so  —  so  dead!  " 

The  boy  shuddered  violently,  then  grinned  again  and 
squeezed  Dad's  hand. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  son,"  begged  Dad.  "  Every- 
thing.    From  —  from  — " 

"  We'd  just  taken  the  hill,"  answered  Jimmie,  seek- 
ing to  marshal  his  facts  in  correct  order.  "  They  were 
shelling  us  from  a  couple  of  batteries  to  the  left.     Some 


296  "  DAD  " 

shells  burst  over  us.  A  piece  of  one  hit  you  in  the  head 
and  over  you  went.  Say,  but  I  wished  'most  a  hun- 
dred times  that  it  had  been  me  instead." 

Dad  lifted  a  fractiously  unsteady  hand  to  his  head. 
It  was  swathed  in  cold,  wet  cloths, 

Jimmie  went  on : 

"  They  didn't  send  us  support  and  we  couldn't  hold 
the  hill,  but  we  toted  you  back  with  us." 

"  The  battle?  "  asked  Dad  in  sudden  anxiety. 

"  It  lasted  till  after  dark.  We  didn't  know  who  had 
won.     Nobody  did. 

"  But  next  morning  Lee  was  gone.  Helter-skelter 
back  across  the  Potomac  into  Virginia  again.  Invasion 
busted  up  for  good. 

"  Some  of  the  fellers  say  the  folks  in  Washington 
are  giving  Little  Mac  blazes  for  letting  Lee  get  back 
safe  into  Virginia  instead  of  catching  him  before  he 
could  get  to  the  Potomac,  But  I  kind  of  guess  it  would 
have  been  just  a  little  bit  like  catching  a  rattlesnake 
by  the  tail. 

"  Anyhow,  campaign's  over,  and  Johnnie  Reb  won't 
stable  his  horses  in  Faneuil  Hall  this  trip.  Say,  Dad, 
they're  talking  a  whole  lot  about  you  everywhere  — 
about  how  you  — " 

The  boy  checked  himself.  Through  sheer  weakness 
Dad  had  fallen  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE    MAN    AT    WASHINGTON 

DAD  sat  in  the  late  September  sunlight  at  the  door 
of  the  hospital  tent  where  for  ten  days  he  had 
Iain.  Slowly,  but  very  surely,  the  old,  wiry  strength 
was  beginning  to  creep  back  to  the  lean  body. 

No  longer  did  the  slightest  sudden  motion  or  an  ef- 
fort to  concentrate  his  thoughts  set  his  head  to  aching 
blindly,  and  no  longer  did  his  knees  buckle  under  him 
when  he  tried  to  cross  the  tent  from  bed  to  door. 

Dad  was  well  out  of  danger,  the  surgeons  said. 
Nothing  but  a  few  more  days  of  rest  was  needed  to  bring 
him  back  to  health. 

An  injury  to  the  head  is  always  dangerous,  but  it 
has  this  redeeming  quality  —  it  does  not  long  keep  its 
victim  in  suspense.  It  kills,  crazes,  or  gets  entirely 
well  in  an  unbelievably  short  time.  The  issue  is  settled, 
one  way  or  another,  in  far  less  time  than  in  the  case  of 
an  equally  severe  wound  in  any  other  part  of  the 
anatomy. 

The  campaign  was  over. 

The  Confederate  army,  back  in  its  lair,  was  licking 

the  grievous  wounds  sustained  in  the  Antietam  fight. 

The  Army  of  the  Potomac,  nearly  thirteen  thousand  of 

297 


298  "  DAD  " 

its  soldiers  dead  from  that  same  fight,  was  resting  on 
its  doubtful  laurels. 

Here  and  there  skirmish  parties  or  small  detachments 
of  the  rival  forces  were  in  motion,  but  between  the  main 
bodies  of  both  armies  brooded  the  truce  of  exhaustion. 

The  Federals  that  summer  and  early  fall  had  in- 
vaded Virginia,  and  after  a  series  of  fearful  defeats  had 
been  driven  out.  Lee  in  September  had  invaded  the 
North,  and  had  met  with  like  fate. 

The  season  was  too  far  advanced  for  any  more  exten- 
sive operations,  and  a  lull  came. 

Almost  directly  after  Antietam's  battle  President 
Lincoln  had  electrified  the  world  by  issuing  the  so-called 
"  Provisional  Proclamation,"  declaring  in  effect  that 
slavery  within  the  limits  of  the  United  States  was  forever 
dead,  and  that  every  negro  in  America  was  henceforth 
a  human  being,  not  a  piece  of  transferable  property. 

Three  months  later  the  more  formal  "  Emancipation 
Proclamation  "  was  to  follow.  But  its  forerunner,  the 
provisional  proclamation,  quite  as  effectively  struck  the 
slavery  shackles  from  a  million  wrists. 

Lincoln  had  kept  his  solemn  vow  —  the  vow  to  free 
the  slaves  should  the  tide  of  invasion  be  turned. 

All  these  bits  of  news  as  they  reached  camp  were 
faithfully  transmitted  to  Dad  by  that  most  zealous  of 
nurses  and  entertainers.  Battle  Jimmie. 

The  old  man  listened  in  wondering  gratitude  as  he 
realized  the  boundless  fruitage  of  the  finding  of  "  Or- 
der 191." 

To  Dad  the  whole  thing  was  a  miracle,  and  most 


THE  MAN  AT  WASHINGTON  299 

miraculous  of  all  to  him  was  the  praise  showered  on  his 
embarrassed  self  by  his  fellow  officers. 

"  I  feel  like  a  blackleg,  Jimmie,''  he  confided  to  his 
grandson  on  this  his  first  day  of  removal  from  the  tent's 
interior  to  the  sunshine  outside  its  doorway.  "  I  feel 
like  the  original  man  who  stole  the  original  other  fel- 
low's thunder.  Here  folks  keep  coming  to  the  tent  and 
shaking  hands  with  me  and  telling  me  what  a  big  thing 
I  did  in  getting  that  paper  to  Little  Mac  and  what  it's 
meant  to  the  country  and  all. 

"  And  I  don't  know  which  way  to  look.  Anybody'd 
think  I'd  ridden  up  to  General  Hill  and  grabbed  him 
by  the  throat  and  held  him  helpless  in  the  presence  of 
all  his  overawed  men  while  I  went  through  his  pockets 
for  the  order,  instead  of  our  just  happening  by  a  miracle 
of  chance  to  find  it  lying  on  the  ground.  Why,  anyone 
might  have  happened  to  pick  it  up.     It's  no  credit." 

"  That's  right,"  bravely  agreed  Jimmie,  scratching 
Emp's  rough  head  as  the  multi-breed  dog  trotted  back 
from  a  round  of  the  cook-tents  and  lay  down  with  a 
little  grunt  of  repletion  at  his  master's  feet.  "  That's 
right.  Anyone  might  have  found  it,  but  '  anyone ' 
didn't.  And  if  most  folks  had  they  wouldn't  'a'  caught 
the  point  of  it  or  known  what  to  do  with  it.  And  it's 
dead  sure  they  wouldn't  'a'  thought  to  send  it  in  a  rush 
to  Little  Mac  at  the  minute  a  man's  fingers  were  trying 
for  their  throat. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  there's  one  or  two  worse  impostors 
than  you,  Dad." 

The  old  man's  tired  eyes  suddenly  grew  bright  with 


SOO  ^^DAD" 

happy  expectancy.  Jimmie  without  turning  to  look 
divined  the  cause. 

"  I  can  see  fine  out  of  the  back  o|  my  head,"  an- 
nounced the  boy.  "For  instance,  I  can  see  the  mail- 
courier  coming  down  this  row  right  now  with  the  hos- 
pital post-bag  under  his  arm." 

He  twisted  his  head  as  he  spoke,  and  pointed  in  tri- 
umph at  the  approaching  post-bag  bearer. 

"See!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  did  I  tell  you? 
Sometimes  it  just  fairly  scares  me  to  think  how  clever 
I'm  getting  to  be.  Lay  back  and  rest.  I'll  jump  over 
to  the  office  tent,  and  I'll  bring  you  her  letter  the  sec- 
ond it  tumbles  out  of  the  bag." 

He  was  off  at  a  dead  run. 

Dad  looked  after  him  with  the  feeble  impatience  of 
the  convalescent.  Mrs.  Sessions'  letters  had  been  the 
event  of  each  day  to  him.  Not  until  D^d  had  recov- 
ered consciousness  had  Jimmie  written  to  the  little  lady 
that  his  grandfather  was  wounded. 

A  line  from  a  staff  surgeon,  written  at  Jimmie's  plea, 
accompanied  the  letter,  vouching  for  Dad's  recovery. 

The  little  lady,  unable  to  leave  her  post  at  Washing- 
ton, had  done  her  best  to  atone  for  her  absence  by  long 
daily  letters  —  letters  as  spicily,  sweetly  old-fashioned 
as  a  garden  of  cinnamon  roses  and  lavender  —  letters 
containing  learned  exhortation  as  to  the  care  the  pa- 
tient must  take  of  his  precious  self;  throbbing  with 
egregious  pride  at  the  wounded  man's  valor ;  seeking  to 
entertain  him  by  lively  accounts  of  the  daily  happen- 
ings in  Washington. 


THE  MAN  AT  WASHINGTON  301 

Small  wonder  that  helpless  old  Dad  looked  forward 
to  these  daily  epistles  as  a  parched  throat  to  cool  drink. 

Presently  —  or,  as  it  seemed  to  Dad,  after  about  two 
and  a  half  centuries  —  Jimmie  came  back  at  the  double. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  began  the  boy  ruefully,  "  but  — " 

The  change  in  his  grandfather's  face  made  him  cry 
out  in  hot  contrition: 

"Aw,  I  was  fooling.  Dad!  I  just  wanted  to  have  a 
joke  with  you  like  we  used  to.  I'm  a  chump !  Here  it 
is  —  a  dandy  fat  letter,  too." 

Dad  seized  the  letter,  laughing  perfunctorily  to  show 
Jimmie  he  appreciated  the  jest  that  had  constricted  his 
heartstrings  and  throat.  The  boy  tactfully  withdrew 
to  a  little  distance  and  proceeded  to  engage  Emp  in  a 
thrilling  game  of  "  wrassle  the  bear,"  Emp  reluctantly 
enacting  the  ursine  role. 

Dad  opened  the  envelope  with  the  luxurious  slowness 
of  one  who  seeks  to  drag  out  a  pleasure  to  its  utmost 
bounds.  He  smoothed  wide  the  crinkly  sheets  with  their 
fine,  quaint  handwriting,  and  began  to  read. 

This  letter  began  neither  with  admonitions  to  care- 
fulness nor  with  eager  queries  as  to  his  health.  In 
fact,  it  could  scarce  be  said  to  "  begin  "  at  all.  It 
started  off  in  the  very  middle  of  the  writer's  burst  of  ex- 
citement. 

Dad  read: 

Something  wonderfuVs  happened.  It's  got  me  so  stirred 
up  I  don't  know  which  end  of  it  to  begin  to  tell  first,  and 
my  hand's  all  jumpy.     Listen,  Jim: 

This  morning,  as  I  was  coming  on  duty  at  the  hospital. 


302  "DAD" 

I  could  tell  the  minute  I  got  into  tlie  big  outer  hall  some- 
thing was  up.  Everybody  was  hurrying  around,  all  flus- 
tered and  het  up,  but  all  looking  pleased  as  Punch.  And 
the  orderly  at  the  door  told  me  President  Lincoln  was 
making  an  inspection  of  the  wards. 

I  was  crazy  to  see  him;  and  I*d  heard  how  he  goes  from 
bed  to  bed,  talking  to  the  sick  soldiers  just  like  they  were 
his  babies.  So  I  started  at  a  trot  for  the  nearest  ward, 
hoping  I'd  get  one  glimpse  of  him. 

And  as  I  was  starting  to  scuttle  up  the  main  stairway, 
what  should  I  do  but  run  into  a  party  of  folks  that  was 
coming  down  from  the  wards.  Some  of  the  doctors  and 
officers  were  with  them. 

And  I  pretty  near  collided,  bang  slap,  with  the  gentle- 
man who  was  coming  down  the  stairs  a  step  or  two  in  front 
of  the  rest. 

I  stopped  and  said:  "Excuse  me,  sir.  I  wasn't  look- 
ing."    And   then   I    did  look. 

I  looked  up  to  where  I  thought  his  face  would  just  nat- 
urally be.  And  I*m  blest  if  it  wasn't  only  his  chest  in- 
stead. I  kept  looking  up  —  up  —  up  —  till  my  neck  near 
got  a  crick  in  it. 

And  at  last  I  saw  his  face. 

He  looked  about  nine  feet,  thirteen  inches  high,  and  as 
thin  as  a  rail.  And  his  black  clothes  and  his  high  pot- 
hat  made  him  look  a  lot  higher  and  thinner.  But  it  wasn't 
his  figure  I  found  I  was  gawping  at.     It  was  his  face. 

Oh,  Jim,  such  a  face!  Ugly,  I  suppose,  and  whiskered, 
and  full  of  gullies  and  ridges. 

But  it's  the  strongest,  wisest,  kindest,  wonderfulest  face 
the  Lord  ever  made.  And  the  great  big  gray  eyes  looked 
as  if  they  were  holding  the  work  and  the  bothers  and  the 
sorrows  —  and  the  fun,  too  —  of  the  whole  eternal  uni- 
verse. 

Yes,  you've  guessed  who  it  was.     Mr.  Lincoln.     No  less. 


THE  MAN  AT  WASHINGTON  303 

I  just  stood  there^  all  flabbergasted;  staring  and  courtsy- 
ing.  And  he  kept  looking  down  at  me  with  the  sweetest, 
friendliest  smile  you  ever  saw. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"   I   says   again. 

**  That's  all  right,  little  woman,"  he  answers,  in  that 
deep,  gentle  voice  of  his.  "  The  nurse  deserves  the  right 
oi  way  nowadays;  even  over  the  President.     She  earns  it." 

Just  then,  as  I  was  moving  aside  (and  longing,  too,  to 
thank  him  for  being  such  a  wonderful  man)  the  superin- 
tendent steps  up  to  him  and  says: 

"  Mr.  President,  this  is  Nurse  Sessions  you  were  asking 
about.  Would  you  care  to  speak  to  her  now.^  My  office 
is  here  to  the  right.     You  won't  be  disturbed  there." 

Well,  Jim,  I  could  have  gone  through  the  floor,  right 
then  and  there.  I  couldn't  believe  my  ears  were  telling 
me  the  truth.  What  could  Mr.  Lincoln  have  to  say  to  me.^* 
And  how  could  I  have  been  away  when  he  asked  for  me} 

I  just  stood  trembling  and  looking  foolish. 

And  then  Mr.  Lincoln  was  smiling  and  holding  out  his 
hand —     I  wanted  to  kiss  it!  —  and  saying: 

**  Mrs.  Sessions,  one  of  the  reasons  I  came  here  this 
morning  was  for  a  little  chat  with  you.  Shall  we  step  in 
here?" 

And  I  followed  him  into  the  superintendent's  office  and 
he  set  a  chair  for  me,  just  like  I  was  a  queen,  and  as  if  he 
was  working  for  our  folks. 

We  sat  down.  And  here's  what  he  said,  as  close  as  I 
can  remember.  And  I  guess  I'm  not  liable  to  have  for- 
gotten the  words: 

"  Mrs.  Sessions,"  he  began,  "  there  is  a  very  talkative 
little  boy  up  in  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  And  it  seems 
that  after  Antietam  General  Hooker  sent  for  that  little 
boy  to  ask  him  some  questions  about  a  wounded  officer  that 
General  Hooker  takes  considerable  interest  in.  And  the 
boy,  under  Hooker's  questions,  blabbed  about  that  officer's 


804  "  DAD  " 

being  engaged  to  marry  a  very  lovely  and  dear  little  woman. 
General  Hooker  wrote  to  me  about  it.  So  I  wanted  a 
word  or  two  with  that  little  woman  —  about  him/' 

Think  of  that^  Jim!  Just  think  of  it^  I  made  up  my 
mind,  that  minute,  I'd  go  to  the  hospital  ear  specialist  right 
off  and  get  him  to  find  out  why  I'd  taken  to  hearing  things 
that  couldn't  possibly  have  been  said  to  me. 

But   Mr.    Lincoln   went   on,   more    serious: 

"  Mrs.  Sessions,  I  know  Major  Dadd's  story.  All  of 
it.  He's  the  kind  of  man  I  think  I'd  like  to  be  friends  with. 
Do  you  think  he'd  feel  like  meeting  me  ?  '* 

"Oh,  Mr.  President!"  I  sputtered. 

I  couldn't  say  another  word. 

"  Because,"  he  goes  on,  his  mouth-corners  twisting  up  in 
a  smile.  "  I'd  like  to  have  him  come  to  see  me.  We  owe 
him  a  good  deal.  And  I  want  we  should  pay  some  of  that 
debt.  If  he  hangs  back,  and  doesn't  think  it's  worth  while 
to  come,  just  you  tell  him  I've  a  couple  of  little  presents 
for  him. 

'*  One  is  from  Congress.     One  is  from  me." 

Yes,  I  was  sure  I'd  have  to  go  to  that  ear  specialist, 
Jim! 

"  The  present  from  Congress,  ma'am,"  says  Mr.  Lin- 
coln, **  is  a  gold  Distinguished  Service  Medal.  It  was 
voted  him  yesterday  for  his  share  in  the  Antietam  cam- 
paign. But  it  wasn't  voted  to  James  Dadd.  I've  put  an 
end  to  *  James  Dadd's  '  existence  with  six  strokes  of  the 
pen, 

"I  —  I  don't  understand,  Mr.  President,"  I  blurted  out; 
and  neither  I  did. 

"  James  Dadd,"  he  says,  with  another  of  those  smiles 
that  makes  a  body's  heart  go  all  warm,  "  James  Dadd  was 
a  mistake.  I've  rectified  it.  He  is  James  Brinton,  hence- 
forward and  always.     Tell  him  never  to  forget  that.     For 


THE  MAN  AT  WASHINGTON  305 

it's  the  way  his  name  has  been  altered  on  the  army  lists." 

He  kind  of  paused  for  a  second^  then  he  said: 

*'  And,  Mrs.  Sessions,  James  Brinton  is  the  name  on  a 
document  I  signed  last  night.  IVe  about  decided  that 
Brinton  isn't  really  worthy  to  be  a  brevet-major  any  more 
after  the  way  he  behaved  in  the  Antietam  campaign.  So, 
to  punish  him,  IVe  just  signed  a  commission  making  him  a 
brigadier-general  instead." 

I  don't  know,  Jim,  if  it  was  then,  or  a  while  earlier,  that 
I  began  crying.  I  guess  it  was  then.  I  sat  sopping  my 
eyes  and  trying  to  say  grand,  eloquent  things.  But  I  could 
hear  myself  just  saying:  "Thank  you!  Thank  you! 
Thank  you !  "  all  kind  of  sobby,  over  and  over  again,  like 
a  numb  wit. 

But  he  seemed  to  understand.  I  guess  he  always  un- 
derstands. That's  what  makes  him  different.  He  got  up 
and  took  my  hand  again,  and  he  said: 

"  Tell  him  next  time  you  write.  And  tell  him,  if  he's 
well  enough,  I  want  him  to  come  to  the  White  House  next 
Tuesday  afternoon.  I  want  you  to  come,  too,  ma'am. 
And  —  don't  forget  to  tell  him  to  bring  Battle  Jimmie 
along.     I  want  to  thank  him,  too. 

**  And  he  and  my  boy.  Tad,  can  get  into  mischief  to- 
gether while  we  old  folks  are  gabbling." 

He  took  his  hat  off  of  the  table  and  he  started  for  the 
door.  When  he  got  to  the  threshold  he  turned  around  and 
he  said: 

"  A  man  who  has  never  stumbled  is  to  be  envied,  Mrs. 
Sessions.  But  a  man  who  has  stumbled  and  then  fought 
his  way  back  again,  strong  and  firm,  to  his  feet,  is  the 
sort  whose  hands  real  men  like  to  shake.  Tell  him  that, 
too,  ma'am,  when  you  write.  I  guess  he'll  know  what  I'm 
driving  at." 

Oh,  Jim! 


306  "  DAD  " 

The  old  B.  &  O.  station  at  Washington  was  crowded 
with  hurrying  soldiers  and  civilians  one  early  October 
afternoon  in  1862.  From  an  incoming  train  alighted 
three  figures  who  caught  the  interestbd  gaze  of  more 
than  one  passer-by. 

The  trio  were  a  tall  man  in  late  middle-age,  whose 
face  was  still  thin  and  white  as  from  sharp  illness;  a 
small  and  red-headed  boy  whose  alert  eyes  gloated  on 
the  noisy  bustle  and  confusion  around  him,  and  a  small 
yellow  dog,  whose  nondescript  coat  had  been  painstak- 
ingly washed  and  combed  for  the  occasion  until  it  shone 
(and  reeked  with  the  scent  of  castile  soap),  and  around 
whose  short  neck  a  wide  red-white-and-blue  ribbon  was 
tied  into  a  tremendous  bow* 

As  the  three  comrades  won  their  way  clear  of  the  sta- 
tion crowds  and  to  the  street  outside  a  man  in  uniform 
stepped  up  to  them. 

"  Major  Brinton?  "  he  asked  cordially. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Dad,  thrilling  at  sound  of  the  old 
name. 

"  I  am  President  Lincoln's  military  aid,"  said  the 
officer.  "  I  was  sent  here  to  meet  you  and  take  you 
to  the  White  House.  There  is  the  carriage  at  the  curb. 
I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you,  sir.  Your  services 
have  been  great. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  added,  glancing  at  Dad's  belt, 
*^  this  is  not  to  be  a  formal  reception.  It  isn't  neces- 
sary to  wear  your  sword,  if  it  incommodes  you  at  all." 

"  This  sword,  sir,"  answered  Dad,  laying  a  reverent 
hand  on  its  hilt,  "  was  given  me  by  a  lady  who's  waiting 


THE  MAN  AT  WASHINGTON  307 

for  me  at  the  White  House.  I  promised  her  I'd  never 
draw  it  without  cause,  or  sheathe  it  without  honor.  I'm 
going  to  wear  it  to  the  White  House  and  tell  her  I've 
kept  my  promise." 

"  As  you  wish,"  said  the  aid  pleasantly.  "  The  car- 
riage is  — " 

"  Will  you  mind,  sir,"  interposed  Dad,  "  if  we  march 
instead  ?  Once  I  left  the  army  —  on  foot.  I  would 
like  to  go  on  foot  to  a  reward  I  don't  deserve.  A  silly 
fancy,  maybe.  But  I've  looked  forward  to  it  a  long, 
long  time.  Especially  since  I  was  sick.  March,  Jim- 
mie!" 

Word  had  passed  around  as  to  the  trio's  identity. 
A  little  crowd  had  gathered.  From  the  onlookers,  as 
Dad  and  Battle  Jimmie  fell  Into  step,  went  up  a  cheer. 

The  two  saluted,  squared  their  shoulders,  and  set 
forth  on  their  march  of  triumph,  Emp  trotting  proudly 
ahead  of  them  in  all  the  glory  of  his  patriotic  ribbon 
and  scoured  coat. 

And  so  did  Dad  Brinton  come  to  his  own. 


THE  END 


^                  14  »AY  USE 

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_    -    -    -      1 

^F^niR  DEC  171984 

Altf^     i 

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{ 

7i- <7  'S^ii^^^^  -  - ' 

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84 

General  Library 
LD  21A-50m-8,'57                                 University  of  California 
(C8481sl0)476B                                                 Berkeley 

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